The House of the Wolfings
by William Morris · English · Gutenberg #2885 · 469,472 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The House of the Wolfings
Author: William Morris
Release date: October 1, 2001 [eBook #2885]
Most recently updated: January 1, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2885
Credits: Transcribed from the 1904 Longmans, Green, and Co. edition by David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF THE WOLFINGS ***
Transcribed from the 1904 Longmans, Green, and Co. edition by David
Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
THE HOUSE OF THE WOLFINGS
A TALE OF THE HOUSE OF THE WOLFINGS AND ALL THE KINDREDS OF THE MARK
WRITTEN IN PROSE AND IN VERSE
by William Morris
Whiles in the early Winter eve
We pass amid the gathering night
Some homestead that we had to leave
Years past; and see its candles bright
Shine in the room beside the door
Where we were merry years agone
But now must never enter more,
As still the dark road drives us on.
E'en so the world of men may turn
At even of some hurried day
And see the ancient glimmer burn
Across the waste that hath no way;
Then with that faint light in its eyes
A while I bid it linger near
And nurse in wavering memories
The bitter-sweet of days that were.
CHAPTER I--THE DWELLINGS OF MID-MARK
The tale tells that in times long past there was a dwelling of men beside
a great wood. Before it lay a plain, not very great, but which was, as
it were, an isle in the sea of woodland, since even when you stood on the
flat ground, you could see trees everywhere in the offing, though as for
hills, you could scarce say that there were any; only swellings-up of the
earth here and there, like the upheavings of the water that one sees at
whiles going on amidst the eddies of a swift but deep stream.
On either side, to right and left the tree-girdle reached out toward the
blue distance, thick close and unsundered, save where it and the plain
which it begirdled was cleft amidmost by a river about as wide as the
Thames at Sheene when the flood-tide is at its highest, but so swift and
full of eddies, that it gave token of mountains not so far distant,
though they were hidden. On each side moreover of the stream of this
river was a wide space of stones, great and little, and in most places
above this stony waste were banks of a few feet high, showing where the
yearly winter flood was most commonly stayed.
You must know that this great clearing in the woodland was not a matter
of haphazard; though the river had driven a road whereby men might fare
on each side of its hurrying stream. It was men who had made that Isle
in the woodland.
For many generations the folk that now dwelt there had learned the craft
of iron-founding, so that they had no lack of wares of iron and steel,
whether they were tools of handicraft or weapons for hunting and for war.
It was the men of the Folk, who coming adown by the river-side had made
that clearing. The tale tells not whence they came, but belike from the
dales of the distant mountains, and from dales and mountains and plains
further aloof and yet further.
Anyhow they came adown the river; on its waters on rafts, by its shores
in wains or bestriding their horses or their kine, or afoot, till they
had a mind to abide; and there as it fell they stayed their travel, and
spread from each side of the river, and fought with the wood and its wild
things, that they might make to themselves a dwelling-place on the face
of the earth.
So they cut down the trees, and burned their stumps that the grass might
grow sweet for their kine and sheep and horses; and they diked the river
where need was all through the plain, and far up into the wild-wood to
bridle the winter floods: and they made them boats to ferry them over,
and to float down stream and track up-stream: they fished the river's
eddies also with net and with line; and drew drift from out of it of far-
travelled wood and other matters; and the gravel of its shallows they
washed for gold; and it became their friend, and they loved it, and gave
it a name, and called it the Dusky, and the Glassy, and the
Mirkwood-water; for the names of it changed with the generations of man.
There then in the clearing of the wood that for many years grew greater
yearly they drave their beasts to pasture in the new-made meadows, where
year by year the grass grew sweeter as the sun shone on it and the
standing waters went from it; and now in the year whereof the tale
telleth it was a fair and smiling plain, and no folk might have a better
meadow.
But long before that had they learned the craft of tillage and taken heed
to the acres and begun to grow wheat and rye thereon round about their
roofs; the spade came into their hands, and they bethought them of the
plough-share, and the tillage spread and grew, and there was no lack of
bread.
In such wise that Folk had made an island amidst of the Mirkwood, and
established a home there, and upheld it with manifold toil too long to
tell of. And from the beginning this clearing in the wood they called
the Mid-mark: for you shall know that men might journey up and down the
Mirkwood-water, and half a day's ride up or down they would come on
another clearing or island in the woods, and these were the Upper-mark
and the Nether-mark: and all these three were inhabited by men of one
folk and one kindred, which was called the Mark-men, though of many
branches was that stem of folk, who bore divers signs in battle and at
the council whereby they might be known.
Now in the Mid-mark itself were many Houses of men; for by that word had
they called for generations those who dwelt together under one token of
kinship. The river ran from South to North, and both on the East side
and on the West were there Houses of the Folk, and their habitations were
shouldered up nigh unto the wood, so that ever betwixt them and the river
was there a space of tillage and pasture.
Tells the tale of one such House, whose habitations were on the west side
of the water, on a gentle slope of land, so that no flood higher than
common might reach them. It was straight down to the river mostly that
the land fell off, and on its downward-reaching slopes was the tillage,
"the Acres," as the men of that time always called tilled land; and
beyond that was the meadow going fair and smooth, though with here and
there a rising in it, down to the lips of the stony waste of the winter
river.
Now the name of this House was the Wolfings, and they bore a Wolf on
their banners, and their warriors were marked on the breast with the
image of the Wolf, that they might be known for what they were if they
fell in battle, and were stripped.
The house, that is to say the Roof, of the Wolfings of the Mid-mark stood
on the topmost of the slope aforesaid with its back to the wild-wood and
its face to the acres and the water. But you must know that in those
days the men of one branch of kindred dwelt under one roof together, and
had therein their place and dignity; nor were there many degrees amongst
them as hath befallen afterwards, but all they of one blood were brethren
and of equal dignity. Howbeit they had servants or thralls, men taken in
battle, men of alien blood, though true it is that from time to time were
some of such men taken into the House, and hailed as brethren of the
blood.
Also (to make an end at once of these matters of kinship and affinity)
the men of one House might not wed the women of their own House: to the
Wolfing men all Wolfing women were as sisters: they must needs wed with
the Hartings or the Elkings or the Bearings, or other such Houses of the
Mark as were not so close akin to the blood of the Wolf; and this was a
law that none dreamed of breaking. Thus then dwelt this Folk and such
was their Custom.
As to the Roof of the Wolfings, it was a great hall and goodly, after the
fashion of their folk and their day; not built of stone and lime, but
framed of the goodliest trees of the wild-wood squared with the adze, and
betwixt the framing filled with clay wattled with reeds. Long was that
house, and at one end anigh the gable was the Man's-door, not so high
that a man might stand on the threshold and his helmcrest clear the
lintel; for such was the custom, that a tall man must bow himself as he
came into the hall; which custom maybe was a memory of the days of
onslaught when the foemen were mostly wont to beset the hall; whereas in
the days whereof the tale tells they drew out into the fields and fought
unfenced; unless at whiles when the odds were over great, and then they
drew their wains about them and were fenced by the wain-burg. At least
it was from no niggardry that the door was made thus low, as might be
seen by the fair and manifold carving of knots and dragons that was
wrought above the lintel of the door for some three foot's space. But a
like door was there anigh the other gable-end, whereby the women entered,
and it was called the Woman's-door.
Near to the house on all sides except toward the wood were there many
bowers and cots round about the penfolds and the byres: and these were
booths for the stowage of wares, and for crafts and smithying that were
unhandy to do in the house; and withal they were the dwelling-places of
the thralls. And the lads and young men often abode there many days and
were cherished there of the thralls that loved them, since at whiles they
shunned the Great Roof that they might be the freer to come and go at
their pleasure, and deal as they would. Thus was there a clustering on
the slopes and bents betwixt the acres of the Wolfings and the wild-wood
wherein dwelt the wolves.
As to the house within, two rows of pillars went down it endlong,
fashioned of the mightiest trees that might be found, and each one fairly
wrought with base and chapiter, and wreaths and knots, and fighting men
and dragons; so that it was like a church of later days that has a nave
and aisles: windows there were above the aisles, and a passage underneath
the said windows in their roofs. In the aisles were the sleeping-places
of the Folk, and down the nave under the crown of the roof were three
hearths for the fires, and above each hearth a luffer or smoke-bearer to
draw the smoke up when the fires were lighted. Forsooth on a bright
winter afternoon it was strange to see the three columns of smoke going
wavering up to the dimness of the mighty roof, and one maybe smitten
athwart by the sunbeams. As for the timber of the roof itself and its
framing, so exceeding great and high it was, that the tale tells how that
none might see the fashion of it from the hall-floor unless he were to
raise aloft a blazing faggot on a long pole: since no lack of timber was
there among the men of the Mark.
At the end of the hall anigh the Man's-door was the dais, and a table
thereon set thwartwise of the hall; and in front of the dais was the
noblest and greatest of the hearths; (but of the others one was in the
very midmost, and another in the Woman's-Chamber) and round about the
dais, along the gable-wall, and hung from pillar to pillar were woven
cloths pictured with images of ancient tales and the deeds of the
Wolfings, and the deeds of the Gods from whence they came. And this was
the fairest place of all the house and the best-beloved of the Folk, and
especially of the older and the mightier men: and there were tales told,
and songs sung, especially if they were new: and thereto also were
messengers brought if any tidings were abroad: there also would the
elders talk together about matters concerning the House or the Mid-mark
or the whole Folk of the Markmen.
Yet you must not think that their solemn councils were held there, the
folk-motes whereat it must be determined what to do and what to forbear
doing; for according as such councils, (which they called Things) were of
the House or of the Mid-mark or of the whole Folk, were they held each at
the due Thing-steads in the Wood aloof from either acre or meadow, (as
was the custom of our forefathers for long after) and at such Things
would all the men of the House or the Mid-mark or the Folk be present man
by man. And in each of these steads was there a Doomring wherein Doom
was given by the neighbours chosen, (whom now we call the Jury) in
matters between man and man; and no such doom of neighbours was given,
and no such voice of the Folk proclaimed in any house or under any roof,
nor even as aforesaid on the tilled acres or the depastured meadows. This
was the custom of our forefathers, in memory, belike, of the days when as
yet there was neither house nor tillage, nor flocks and herds, but the
Earth's face only and what freely grew thereon.
But over the dais there hung by chains and pulleys fastened to a tie-beam
of the roof high aloft a wondrous lamp fashioned of glass; yet of no such
glass as the folk made then and there, but of a fair and clear green like
an emerald, and all done with figures and knots in gold, and strange
beasts, and a warrior slaying a dragon, and the sun rising on the earth:
nor did any tale tell whence this lamp came, but it was held as an
ancient and holy thing by all the Markmen, and the kindred of the Wolf
had it in charge to keep a light burning in it night and day for ever;
and they appointed a maiden of their own kindred to that office; which
damsel must needs be unwedded, since no wedded woman dwelling under that
roof could be a Wolfing woman, but would needs be of the houses wherein
the Wolfings wedded.
This lamp which burned ever was called the Hall-Sun, and the woman who
had charge of it, and who was the fairest that might be found was called
after it the Hall-Sun also.
At the other end of the hall was the Woman's-Chamber, and therein were
the looms and other gear for the carding and spinning of wool and the
weaving of cloth.
Such was the Roof under which dwelt the kindred of the Wolfings; and the
other kindreds of the Mid-mark had roofs like to it; and of these the
chiefest were the Elkings, the Vallings, the Alftings, the Beamings, the
Galtings, and the Bearings; who bore on their banners the Elk, the
Falcon, the Swan, the Tree, the Boar, and the Bear. But other lesser and
newer kindreds there were than these: as for the Hartings above named,
they were a kindred of the Upper-mark.
CHAPTER II--THE FLITTING OF THE WAR-ARROW
Tells the tale that it was an evening of summer, when the wheat was in
the ear, but yet green; and the neat-herds were done driving the milch-
kine to the byre, and the horseherds and the shepherds had made the night-
shift, and the out-goers were riding two by two and one by one through
the lanes between the wheat and the rye towards the meadow. Round the
cots of the thralls were gathered knots of men and women both thralls and
freemen, some talking together, some hearkening a song or a tale, some
singing and some dancing together; and the children gambolling about from
group to group with their shrill and tuneless voices, like young
throstles who have not yet learned the song of their race. With these
were mingled dogs, dun of colour, long of limb, sharp-nosed, gaunt and
great; they took little heed of the children as they pulled them about in
their play, but lay down, or loitered about, as though they had forgotten
the chase and the wild-wood.
Merry was the folk with that fair tide, and the promise of the harvest,
and the joy of life, and there was no weapon among them so close to the
houses, save here and there the boar-spear of some herdman or herd-woman
late come from the meadow.
Tall and for the most part comely were both men and women; the most of
them light-haired and grey-eyed, with cheek-bones somewhat high; white of
skin but for the sun's burning, and the wind's parching, and whereas they
were tanned of a very ruddy and cheerful hue. But the thralls were some
of them of a shorter and darker breed, black-haired also and dark-eyed,
lighter of limb; sometimes better knit, but sometimes crookeder of leg
and knottier of arm. But some also were of build and hue not much unlike
to the freemen; and these doubtless came of some other Folk of the Goths
which had given way in battle before the Men of the Mark, either they or
their fathers.
Moreover some of the freemen were unlike their fellows and kindred, being
slenderer and closer-knit, and black-haired, but grey-eyed withal; and
amongst these were one or two who exceeded in beauty all others of the
House.
Now the sun was set and the glooming was at point to begin and the
shadowless twilight lay upon the earth. The nightingales on the borders
of the wood sang ceaselessly from the scattered hazel-trees above the
greensward where the grass was cropped down close by the nibbling of the
rabbits; but in spite of their song and the divers voices of the men-folk
about the houses, it was an evening on which sounds from aloof can be
well heard, since noises carry far at such tides.
Suddenly they who were on the edges of those throngs and were the less
noisy, held themselves as if to listen; and a group that had gathered
about a minstrel to hear his story fell hearkening also round about the
silenced and hearkening tale-teller: some of the dancers and singers
noted them and in their turn stayed the dance and kept silence to
hearken; and so from group to group spread the change, till all were
straining their ears to hearken the tidings. Already the men of the
night-shift had heard it, and the shepherds of them had turned about, and
were trotting smartly back through the lanes of the tall wheat: but the
horse-herds were now scarce seen on the darkening meadow, as they
galloped on fast toward their herds to drive home the stallions. For
what they had heard was the tidings of war.
There was a sound in the air as of a humble-bee close to the ear of one
lying on a grassy bank; or whiles as of a cow afar in the meadow lowing
in the afternoon when milking-time draws nigh: but it was ever shriller
than the one, and fuller than the other; for it changed at whiles, though
after the first sound of it, it did not rise or fall, because the eve was
windless. You might hear at once that for all it was afar, it was a
great and mighty sound; nor did any that hearkened doubt what it was, but
all knew it for the blast of the great war-horn of the Elkings, whose
Roof lay up Mirkwood-water next to the Roof of the Wolfings.
So those little throngs broke up at once; and all the freemen, and of the
thralls a good many, flocked, both men and women, to the Man's-door of
the hall, and streamed in quietly and with little talk, as men knowing
that they should hear all in due season.
Within under the Hall-Sun, amidst the woven stories of time past, sat the
elders and chief warriors on the dais, and amidst of all a big strong man
of forty winters, his dark beard a little grizzled, his eyes big and
grey. Before him on the board lay the great War-horn of the Wolfings
carved out of the tusk of a sea-whale of the North and with many devices
on it and the Wolf amidst them all; its golden mouth-piece and rim
wrought finely with flowers. There it abode the blowing, until the
spoken word of some messenger should set forth the tidings borne on the
air by the horn of the Elkings.
But the name of the dark-haired chief was Thiodolf (to wit Folk-wolf) and
he was deemed the wisest man of the Wolfings, and the best man of his
hands, and of heart most dauntless. Beside him sat the fair woman called
the Hall-Sun; for she was his foster-daughter before men's eyes; and she
was black-haired and grey-eyed like to her fosterer, and never was woman
fashioned fairer: she was young of years, scarce twenty winters old.
There sat the chiefs and elders on the dais, and round about stood the
kindred intermingled with the thralls, and no man spake, for they were
awaiting sure and certain tidings: and when all were come in who had a
mind to, there was so great a silence in the hall, that the song of the
nightingales on the wood-edge sounded clear and loud therein, and even
the chink of the bats about the upper windows could be heard. Then
amidst the hush of men-folk, and the sounds of the life of the earth came
another sound that made all turn their eyes toward the door; and this was
the pad-pad of one running on the trodden and summer-dried ground anigh
the hall: it stopped for a moment at the Man's-door, and the door opened,
and the throng parted, making way for the man that entered and came
hastily up to the midst of the table that stood on the dais athwart the
hall, and stood there panting, holding forth in his outstretched hand
something which not all could see in the dimness of the hall-twilight,
but which all knew nevertheless. The man was young, lithe and slender,
and had no raiment but linen breeches round his middle, and skin shoes on
his feet. As he stood there gathering his breath for speech, Thiodolf
stood up, and poured mead into a drinking horn and held it out towards
the new-comer, and spake, but in rhyme and measure:
"Welcome, thou evening-farer, and holy be thine head,
Since thou hast sought unto us in the heart of the Wolfings' stead;
Drink now of the horn of the mighty, and call a health if thou wilt
O'er the eddies of the mead-horn to the washing out of guilt.
For thou com'st to the peace of the Wolfings, and our very guest thou
art,
And meseems as I behold thee, that I look on a child of the Hart."
But the man put the horn from him with a hasty hand, and none said
another word to him until he had gotten his breath again; and then he
said:
"All hail ye Wood-Wolfs' children! nought may I drink the wine,
For the mouth and the maw that I carry this eve are nought of mine;
And my feet are the feet of the people, since the word went forth that
tide,
'O Elf here of the Hartings, no longer shalt thou bide
In any house of the Markmen than to speak the word and wend,
Till all men know the tidings and thine errand hath an end.'
Behold, O Wolves, the token and say if it be true!
I bear the shaft of battle that is four-wise cloven through,
And its each end dipped in the blood-stream, both the iron and the
horn,
And its midmost scathed with the fire; and the word that I have borne
Along with this war-token is, 'Wolfings of the Mark
Whenso ye see the war-shaft, by the daylight or the dark,
Busk ye to battle faring, and leave all work undone
Save the gathering for the handplay at the rising of the sun.
Three days hence is the hosting, and thither bear along
Your wains and your kine for the slaughter lest the journey should be
long.
For great is the Folk, saith the tidings, that against the Markmen
come;
In a far off land is their dwelling, whenso they sit at home,
And Welsh {1} is their tongue, and we wot not of the word that is in
their mouth,
As they march a many together from the cities of the South.'"
Therewith he held up yet for a minute the token of the war-arrow ragged
and burnt and bloody; and turning about with it in his hand went his ways
through the open door, none hindering; and when he was gone, it was as if
the token were still in the air there against the heads of the living
men, and the heads of the woven warriors, so intently had all gazed at
it; and none doubted the tidings or the token. Then said Thiodolf:
"Forth will we Wolfing children, and cast a sound abroad:
The mouth of the sea-beast's weapon shall speak the battle-word;
And ye warriors hearken and hasten, and dight the weed of war,
And then to acre and meadow wend ye adown no more,
For this work shall be for the women to drive our neat from the mead,
And to yoke the wains, and to load them as the men of war have need."
Out then they streamed from the hall, and no man was left therein save
the fair Hall-Sun sitting under the lamp whose name she bore. But to the
highest of the slope they went, where was a mound made higher by man's
handiwork; thereon stood Thiodolf and handled the horn, turning his face
toward the downward course of Mirkwood-water; and he set the horn to his
lips, and blew a long blast, and then again, and yet again the third
time; and all the sounds of the gathering night were hushed under the
sound of the roaring of the war-horn of the Wolfings; and the Kin of the
Beamings heard it as they sat in their hall, and they gat them ready to
hearken to the bearer of the tidings who should follow on the sound of
the war-blast.
But when the last sound of the horn had died away, then said Thiodolf:
"Now Wolfing children hearken, what the splintered War-shaft saith,
The fire scathed blood-stained aspen! we shall ride for life or death,
We warriors, a long journey with the herd and with the wain;
But unto this our homestead shall we wend us back again,
All the gleanings of the battle; and here for them that live
Shall stand the Roof of the Wolfings, and for them shall the meadow
thrive,
And the acres give their increase in the harvest of the year;
Now is no long departing since the Hall-Sun bideth here
'Neath the holy Roof of the Fathers, and the place of the Wolfing kin,
And the feast of our glad returning shall yet be held therein.
Hear the bidding of the War-shaft! All men, both thralls and free,
'Twixt twenty winters and sixty, beneath the shield shall be,
And the hosting is at the Thing-stead, the Upper-mark anigh;
And we wend away to-morrow ere the Sun is noon-tide high."
Therewith he stepped down from the mound, and went his way back to the
hall; and manifold talk arose among the folk; and of the warriors some
were already dight for the journey, but most not, and a many went their
ways to see to their weapons and horses, and the rest back again into the
hall.
By this time night had fallen, and between then and the dawning would be
no darker hour, for the moon was just rising; a many of the horse-herds
had done their business, and were now making their way back again through
the lanes of the wheat, driving the stallions before them, who played
together kicking, biting and squealing, paying but little heed to the
standing corn on either side. Lights began to glitter now in the cots of
the thralls, and brighter still in the stithies where already you might
hear the hammers clinking on the anvils, as men fell to looking to their
battle gear.
But the chief men and the women sat under their Roof on the eve of
departure: and the tuns of mead were broached, and the horns filled and
borne round by young maidens, and men ate and drank and were merry; and
from time to time as some one of the warriors had done with giving heed
to his weapons, he entered into the hall and fell into the company of
those whom he loved most and by whom he was best beloved; and whiles they
talked, and whiles they sang to the harp up and down that long house; and
the moon risen high shone in at the windows, and there was much laughter
and merriment, and talk of deeds of arms of the old days on the eve of
that departure: till little by little weariness fell on them, and they
went their ways to slumber, and the hall was fallen silent.
CHAPTER III--THIODOLF TALKETH WITH THE WOOD-SUN
But yet sat Thiodolf under the Hall-Sun for a while as one in deep
thought; till at last as he stirred, his sword clattered on him; and then
he lifted up his eyes and looked down the hall and saw no man stirring,
so he stood up and settled his raiment on him, and went forth, and so
took his ways through the hall-door, as one who hath an errand.
The moonlight lay in a great flood on the grass without, and the dew was
falling in the coldest hour of the night, and the earth smelled sweetly:
the whole habitation was asleep now, and there was no sound to be known
as the sound of any creature, save that from the distant meadow came the
lowing of a cow that had lost her calf, and that a white owl was flitting
about near the eaves of the Roof with her wild cry that sounded like the
mocking of merriment now silent.
Thiodolf turned toward the wood, and walked steadily through the
scattered hazel-trees, and thereby into the thick of the beech-trees,
whose boles grew smooth and silver-grey, high and close-set: and so on
and on he went as one going by a well-known path, though there was no
path, till all the moonlight was quenched under the close roof of the
beech-leaves, though yet for all the darkness, no man could go there and
not feel that the roof was green above him. Still he went on in despite
of the darkness, till at last there was a glimmer before him, that grew
greater till he came unto a small wood-lawn whereon the turf grew again,
though the grass was but thin, because little sunlight got to it, so
close and thick were the tall trees round about it. In the heavens above
it by now there was a light that was not all of the moon, though it might
scarce be told whether that light were the memory of yesterday or the
promise of to-morrow, since little of the heavens could be seen thence,
save the crown of them, because of the tall tree-tops.
Nought looked Thiodolf either at the heavens above, or the trees, as he
strode from off the husk-strewn floor of the beech wood on to the scanty
grass of the lawn, but his eyes looked straight before him at that which
was amidmost of the lawn: and little wonder was that; for there on a
stone chair sat a woman exceeding fair, clad in glittering raiment, her
hair lying as pale in the moonlight on the grey stone as the barley acres
in the August night before the reaping-hook goes in amongst them. She
sat there as though she were awaiting someone, and he made no stop nor
stay, but went straight up to her, and took her in his arms, and kissed
her mouth and her eyes, and she him again; and then he sat himself down
beside her. But her eyes looked kindly on him as she said:
"O Thiodolf, hardy art thou, that thou hast no fear to take me in thine
arms and to kiss me, as though thou hadst met in the meadow with a maiden
of the Elkings: and I, who am a daughter of the Gods of thy kindred, and
a Chooser of the Slain! Yea, and that upon the eve of battle and the
dawn of thy departure to the stricken field!"
"O Wood-Sun," he said "thou art the treasure of life that I found when I
was young, and the love of life that I hold, now that my beard is
grizzling. Since when did I fear thee, Wood-Sun? Did I fear thee when
first I saw thee, and we stood amidst the hazelled field, we twain living
amongst the slain? But my sword was red with the blood of the foe, and
my raiment with mine own blood; and I was a-weary with the day's work,
and sick with many strokes, and methought I was fainting into death. And
there thou wert before me, full of life and ruddy and smiling both lips
and eyes; thy raiment clean and clear, thine hands stained with blood:
then didst thou take me by my bloody and weary hand, and didst kiss my
lips grown ashen pale, and thou saidst 'Come with me.' And I strove to
go, and might not; so many and sore were my hurts. Then amidst my
sickness and my weariness was I merry; for I said to myself, This is the
death of the warrior, and it is exceeding sweet. What meaneth it? Folk
said of me; he is over young to meet the foeman; yet am I not over young
to die?"
Therewith he laughed out amid the wild-wood, and his speech became song,
and he said:
"We wrought in the ring of the hazels, and the wine of war we drank:
From the tide when the sun stood highest to the hour wherein she sank:
And three kings came against me, the mightiest of the Huns,
The evil-eyed in battle, the swift-foot wily ones;
And they gnashed their teeth against me, and they gnawed on the shield-
rims there,
On that afternoon of summer, in the high-tide of the year.
Keen-eyed I gazed about me, and I saw the clouds draw up
Till the heavens were dark as the hollow of a wine-stained iron cup,
And the wild-deer lay unfeeding on the grass of the forest glades,
And all earth was scared with the thunder above our clashing blades.
"Then sank a King before me, and on fell the other twain,
And I tossed up the reddened sword-blade in the gathered rush of the
rain
And the blood and the water blended, and fragrant grew the earth.
"There long I turned and twisted within the battle-girth
Before those bears of onset: while out from the grey world streamed
The broad red lash of the lightening and in our byrnies gleamed.
And long I leapt and laboured in that garland of the fight
'Mid the blue blades and the lightening; but ere the sky grew light
The second of the Hun-kings on the rain-drenched daisies lay;
And we twain with the battle blinded a little while made stay,
And leaning on our sword-hilts each on the other gazed.
"Then the rain grew less, and one corner of the veil of clouds was
raised,
And as from the broidered covering gleams out the shoulder white
Of the bed-mate of the warrior when on his wedding night
He layeth his hand to the linen; so, down there in the west
Gleamed out the naked heaven: but the wrath rose up in my breast,
And the sword in my hand rose with it, and I leaped and hewed at the
Hun;
And from him too flared the war-flame, and the blades danced bright in
the sun
Come back to the earth for a little before the ending of day.
"There then with all that was in him did the Hun play out the play,
Till he fell, and left me tottering, and I turned my feet to wend
To the place of the mound of the mighty, the gate of the way without
end.
And there thou wert. How was it, thou Chooser of the Slain,
Did I die in thine arms, and thereafter did thy mouth-kiss wake me
again?"
Ere the last sound of his voice was done she turned and kissed him; and
then she said; "Never hadst thou a fear and thine heart is full of
hardihood."
Then he said:
"'Tis the hardy heart, beloved, that keepeth me alive,
As the king-leek in the garden by the rain and the sun doth thrive,
So I thrive by the praise of the people; it is blent with my drink and
my meat;
As I slumber in the night-tide it laps me soft and sweet;
And through the chamber window when I waken in the morn
With the wind of the sun's arising from the meadow is it borne
And biddeth me remember that yet I live on earth:
Then I rise and my might is with me, and fills my heart with mirth,
As I think of the praise of the people; and all this joy I win
By the deeds that my heart commandeth and the hope that lieth
therein."
"Yea," she said, "but day runneth ever on the heels of day, and there are
many and many days; and betwixt them do they carry eld."
"Yet art thou no older than in days bygone," said he. "Is it so, O
Daughter of the Gods, that thou wert never born, but wert from before the
framing of the mountains, from the beginning of all things?"
But she said:
"Nay, nay; I began, I was born; although it may be indeed
That not on the hills of the earth I sprang from the godhead's seed.
And e'en as my birth and my waxing shall be my waning and end.
But thou on many an errand, to many a field dost wend
Where the bow at adventure bended, or the fleeing dastard's spear
Oft lulleth the mirth of the mighty. Now me thou dost not fear,
Yet fear with me, beloved, for the mighty Maid I fear;
And Doom is her name, and full often she maketh me afraid
And even now meseemeth on my life her hand is laid."
But he laughed and said:
"In what land is she abiding? Is she near or far away?
Will she draw up close beside me in the press of the battle play?
And if then I may not smite her 'midst the warriors of the field
With the pale blade of my fathers, will she bide the shove of my
shield?"
But sadly she sang in answer:
"In many a stead Doom dwelleth, nor sleepeth day nor night:
The rim of the bowl she kisseth, and beareth the chambering light
When the kings of men wend happy to the bride-bed from the board.
It is little to say that she wendeth the edge of the grinded sword,
When about the house half builded she hangeth many a day;
The ship from the strand she shoveth, and on his wonted way
By the mountain-hunter fareth where his foot ne'er failed before:
She is where the high bank crumbles at last on the river's shore:
The mower's scythe she whetteth; and lulleth the shepherd to sleep
Where the deadly ling-worm wakeneth in the desert of the sheep.
Now we that come of the God-kin of her redes for ourselves we wot,
But her will with the lives of men-folk and their ending know we not.
So therefore I bid thee not fear for thyself of Doom and her deed,
But for me: and I bid thee hearken to the helping of my need.
Or else--Art thou happy in life, or lusteth thou to die
In the flower of thy days, when thy glory and thy longing bloom on
high?"
But Thiodolf answered her:
"I have deemed, and long have I deemed that this is my second life,
That my first one waned with my wounding when thou cam'st to the ring
of strife.
For when in thine arms I wakened on the hazelled field of yore,
Meseemed I had newly arisen to a world I knew no more,
So much had all things brightened on that dewy dawn of day.
It was dark dull death that I looked for when my thought had died
away.
It was lovely life that I woke to; and from that day henceforth
My joy of the life of man-folk was manifolded of worth.
Far fairer the fields of the morning than I had known them erst,
And the acres where I wended, and the corn with its half-slaked
thirst;
And the noble Roof of the Wolfings, and the hawks that sat thereon;
And the bodies of my kindred whose deliverance I had won;
And the glimmering of the Hall-Sun in the dusky house of old;
And my name in the mouth of the maidens, and the praises of the bold,
As I sat in my battle-raiment, and the ruddy spear well steeled
Leaned 'gainst my side war-battered, and the wounds thine hand had
healed.
Yea, from that morn thenceforward has my life been good indeed,
The gain of to-day was goodly, and good to-morrow's need,
And good the whirl of the battle, and the broil I wielded there,
Till I fashioned the ordered onset, and the unhoped victory fair.
And good were the days thereafter of utter deedless rest
And the prattle of thy daughter, and her hands on my unmailed breast.
Ah good is the life thou hast given, the life that mine hands have
won.
And where shall be the ending till the world is all undone?
Here sit we twain together, and both we in Godhead clad,
We twain of the Wolfing kindred, and each of the other glad."
But she answered, and her face grew darker withal:
"O mighty man and joyous, art thou of the Wolfing kin?
'Twas no evil deed when we mingled, nor lieth doom therein.
Thou lovely man, thou black-haired, thou shalt die and have done no
ill.
Fame-crowned are the deeds of thy doing, and the mouths of men they
fill.
Thou betterer of the Godfolk, enduring is thy fame:
Yet as a painted image of a dream is thy dreaded name.
Of an alien folk thou comest, that we twain might be one indeed.
Thou shalt die one day. So hearken, to help me at my need."
His face grew troubled and he said: "What is this word that I am no chief
of the Wolfings?"
"Nay," she said, "but better than they. Look thou on the face of our
daughter the Hall-Sun, thy daughter and mine: favoureth she at all of
me?"
He laughed: "Yea, whereas she is fair, but not otherwise. This is a hard
saying, that I dwell among an alien kindred, and it wotteth not thereof.
Why hast thou not told me hereof before?"
She said: "It needed not to tell thee because thy day was waxing, as now
it waneth. Once more I bid thee hearken and do my bidding though it be
hard to thee."
He answered: "Even so will I as much as I may; and thus wise must thou
look upon it, that I love life, and fear not death."
Then she spake, and again her words fell into rhyme:
"In forty fights hast thou foughten, and been worsted but in four;
And I looked on and was merry; and ever more and more
Wert thou dear to the heart of the Wood-Sun, and the Chooser of the
Slain.
But now whereas ye are wending with slaughter-herd and wain
To meet a folk that ye know not, a wonder, a peerless foe,
I fear for thy glory's waning, and I see thee lying alow."
Then he brake in: "Herein is little shame to be worsted by the might of
the mightiest: if this so mighty folk sheareth a limb off the tree of my
fame, yet shall it wax again."
But she sang:
"In forty fights hast thou foughten, and beside thee who but I
Beheld the wind-tossed banners, and saw the aspen fly?
But to-day to thy war I wend not, for Weird withholdeth me
And sore my heart forebodeth for the battle that shall be.
To-day with thee I wend not; so I feared, and lo my feet,
That are wont to the woodland girdle of the acres of the wheat,
For thee among strange people and the foeman's throng have trod,
And I tell thee their banner of battle is a wise and a mighty God.
For these are the folk of the cities, and in wondrous wise they dwell
'Mid confusion of heaped houses, dim and black as the face of hell;
Though therefrom rise roofs most goodly, where their captains and
their kings
Dwell amidst the walls of marble in abundance of fair things;
And 'mid these, nor worser nor better, but builded otherwise
Stand the Houses of the Fathers, and the hidden mysteries.
And as close as are the tree-trunks that within the beech-wood thrive
E'en so many are their pillars; and therein like men alive
Stand the images of god-folk in such raiment as they wore
In the years before the cities and the hidden days of yore.
Ah for the gold that I gazed on! and their store of battle gear,
And strange engines that I knew not, or the end for which they were.
Ah for the ordered wisdom of the war-array of these,
And the folks that are sitting about them in dumb down-trodden peace!
So I thought now fareth war-ward my well-beloved friend,
And the weird of the Gods hath doomed it that no more with him may I
wend!
Woe's me for the war of the Wolfings wherefrom I am sundered apart,
And the fruitless death of the war-wise, and the doom of the hardy
heart!"
Then he answered, and his eyes grew kind as he looked on her:
"For thy fair love I thank thee, and thy faithful word, O friend!
But how might it otherwise happen but we twain must meet in the end,
The God of this mighty people and the Markmen and their kin?
Lo, this is the weird of the world, and what may we do herein?"
Then mirth came into her face again as she said:
"Who wotteth of Weird, and what she is till the weird is accomplished?
Long hath it been my weird to love thee and to fashion deeds for thee as
I may; nor will I depart from it now." And she sang:
"Keen-edged is the sword of the city, and bitter is its spear,
But thy breast in the battle, beloved, hath a wall of the stithy's
gear.
What now is thy wont in the handplay with the helm and the hauberk of
rings?
Farest thou as the thrall and the cot-carle, or clad in the raiment of
kings?"
He started, and his face reddened as he answered:
"O Wood-Sun thou wottest our battle and the way wherein we fare:
That oft at the battle's beginning the helm and the hauberk we bear;
Lest the shaft of the fleeing coward or the bow at adventure bent
Should slay us ere the need be, ere our might be given and spent.
Yet oft ere the fight is over, and Doom hath scattered the foe,
No leader of the people by his war-gear shall ye know,
But by his hurts the rather, from the cot-carle and the thrall:
For when all is done that a man may, 'tis the hour for a man to fall."
She yet smiled as she said in answer:
"O Folk-wolf, heed and hearken; for when shall thy life be spent
And the Folk wherein thou dwellest with thy death be well content?
Whenso folk need the fire, do they hew the apple-tree,
And burn the Mother of Blossom and the fruit that is to be?
Or me wilt thou bid to thy grave-mound because thy battle-wrath
May nothing more be bridled than the whirl wind on his path?
So hearken and do my bidding, for the hauberk shalt thou bear
E'en when the other warriors cast off their battle-gear.
So come thou, come unwounded from the war-field of the south,
And sit with me in the beech-wood, and kiss me, eyes and mouth."
And she kissed him in very deed, and made much of him, and fawned on him,
and laid her hand on his breast, and he was soft and blithe with her, but
at last he laughed and said:
"God's Daughter, long hast thou lived, and many a matter seen,
And men full often grieving for the deed that might have been;
But here my heart thou wheedlest as a maid of tender years
When first in the arms of her darling the horn of war she hears.
Thou knowest the axe to be heavy, and the sword, how keen it is;
But that Doom of which thou hast spoken, wilt thou not tell of this,
God's Daughter, how it sheareth, and how it breaketh through
Each wall that the warrior buildeth, yea all deeds that he may do?
What might in the hammer's leavings, in the fire's thrall shall abide
To turn that Folks' o'erwhelmer from the fated warrior's side?"
Then she laughed in her turn, and loudly; but so sweetly that the sound
of her voice mingled with the first song of a newly awakened wood-thrush
sitting on a rowan twig on the edge of the Wood-lawn. But she said:
"Yea, I that am God's Daughter may tell thee never a whit
From what land cometh the hauberk nor what smith smithied it,
That thou shalt wear in the handplay from the first stroke to the
last;
But this thereof I tell thee, that it holdeth firm and fast
The life of the body it lappeth, if the gift of the Godfolk it be.
Lo this is the yoke-mate of doom, and the gift of me unto thee."
Then she leaned down from the stone whereon they sat, and her hand was in
the dewy grass for a little, and then it lifted up a dark grey rippling
coat of rings; and she straightened herself in the seat again, and laid
that hauberk on the knees of Thiodolf, and he put his hand to it, and
turned it about, while he pondered long: then at last he said:
"What evil thing abideth with this warder of the strife,
This burg and treasure chamber for the hoarding of my life?
For this is the work of the dwarfs, and no kindly kin of the earth;
And all we fear the dwarf-kin and their anger and sorrow and mirth."
She cast her arms about him and fondled him, and her voice grew sweeter
than the voice of any mortal thing as she answered:
"No ill for thee, beloved, or for me in the hauberk lies;
No sundering grief is in it, no lonely miseries.
But we shall abide together, and that new life I gave,
For a long while yet henceforward we twain its joy shall have.
Yea, if thou dost my bidding to wear my gift in the fight
No hunter of the wild-wood at the changing of the night
Shall see my shape on thy grave-mound or my tears in the morning find
With the dew of the morning mingled; nor with the evening wind
Shall my body pass the shepherd as he wandereth in the mead
And fill him with forebodings on the eve of the Wolfings' need.
Nor the horse-herd wake in the midnight and hear my fateful cry;
Nor yet shall the Wolfing women hear words on the wind go by
As they weave and spin the night down when the House is gone to the
war,
And weep for the swains they wedded and the children that they bore.
Yea do my bidding, O Folk-wolf, lest a grief of the Gods should weigh
On the ancient House of the Wolfings and my death o'ercloud its day."
And still she clung about him, while he spake no word of yea or nay: but
at the last he let himself glide wholly into her arms, and the
dwarf-wrought hauberk fell from his knees and lay on the grass.
So they abode together in that wood-lawn till the twilight was long gone,
and the sun arisen for some while. And when Thiodolf stepped out of the
beech-wood into the broad sunshine dappled with the shadow of the leaves
of the hazels moving gently in the fresh morning air, he was covered from
the neck to the knee by a hauberk of rings dark and grey and gleaming,
fashioned by the dwarfs of ancient days.
CHAPTER IV--THE HOUSE FARETH TO THE WAR
Now when Thiodolf came back to the habitations of the kindred the whole
House was astir, both thrall-men and women, and free women hurrying from
cot to stithy, and from stithy to hall bearing the last of the war-gear
or raiment for the fighting-men. But they for their part were some
standing about anigh the Man's-door, some sitting gravely within the
hall, some watching the hurry of the thralls and women from the midmost
of the open space amidst of the habitations, whereon there stood yet
certain wains which were belated: for the most of the wains were now
standing with the oxen already yoked to them down in the meadow past the
acres, encircled by a confused throng of kine and horses and thrall-folk,
for thither had all the beasts for the slaughter, and the horses for the
warriors been brought; and there were the horses tethered or held by the
thralls; some indeed were already saddled and bridled, and on others were
the thralls doing the harness.
But as for the wains of the Markmen, they were stoutly framed of ash-tree
with panels of aspen, and they were broad-wheeled so that they might go
over rough and smooth. They had high tilts over them well framed of
willow-poles covered over with squares of black felt over-lapping like
shingles; which felt they made of the rough of their fleeces, for they
had many sheep. And these wains were to them for houses upon the way if
need were, and therein as now were stored their meal and their war-store
and after fight they would flit their wounded men in them, such as were
too sorely hurt to back a horse: nor must it be hidden that whiles they
looked to bring back with them the treasure of the south. Moreover the
folk if they were worsted in any battle, instead of fleeing without more
done, would often draw back fighting into a garth made by these wains,
and guarded by some of their thralls; and there would abide the onset of
those who had thrust them back in the field. And this garth they called
the Wain-burg.
So now stood three of these wains aforesaid belated amidst of the
habitations of the House, their yoke-beasts standing or lying down
unharnessed as yet to them: but in the very midst of that place was a
wain unlike to them; smaller than they but higher; square of shape as to
the floor of it; built lighter than they, yet far stronger; as the
warrior is stronger than the big carle and trencher-licker that loiters
about the hall; and from the midst of this wain arose a mast made of a
tall straight fir-tree, and thereon hung the banner of the Wolfings,
wherein was wrought the image of the Wolf, but red of hue as a token of
war, and with his mouth open and gaping upon the foemen. Also whereas
the other wains were drawn by mere oxen, and those of divers colours, as
chance would have it, the wain of the banner was drawn by ten black bulls
of the mightiest of the herd, deep-dewlapped, high-crested and
curly-browed; and their harness was decked with gold, and so was the wain
itself, and the woodwork of it painted red with vermilion. There then
stood the Banner of the House of the Wolfings awaiting the departure of
the warriors to the hosting.
So Thiodolf stood on the top of the bent beside that same mound wherefrom
he had blown the War-horn yester-eve, and which was called the Hill of
Speech, and he shaded his eyes with his hand and looked around him; and
even therewith the carles fell to yoking the beasts to the belated wains,
and the warriors gathered together from out of the mixed throngs, and
came from the Roof and the Man's-door and all set their faces toward the
Hill of Speech.
So Thiodolf knew that all was ready for departure, and it wanted but an
hour of high-noon; so he turned about and went into the Hall, and there
found his shield and his spear hanging in his sleeping place beside the
hauberk he was wont to wear; then he looked, as one striving with
thought, at his empty hauberk and his own body covered with the dwarf-
wrought rings; nor did his face change as he took his shield and his
spear and turned away. Then he went to the dais and there sat his foster-
daughter (as men deemed her) sitting amidst of it as yester-eve, and now
arrayed in a garment of fine white wool, on the breast whereof were
wrought in gold two beasts ramping up against a fire-altar whereon a
flame flickered; and on the skirts and the hems were other devices, of
wolves chasing deer, and men shooting with the bow; and that garment was
an ancient treasure; but she had a broad girdle of gold and gems about
her middle, and on her arms and neck she wore great gold rings wrought
delicately. By then there were few save the Hall-Sun under the Roof, and
they but the oldest of the women, or a few very old men, and some who
were ailing and might not go abroad. But before her on the thwart table
lay the Great War-horn awaiting the coming of Thiodolf to give signal of
departure.
Then went Thiodolf to the Hall-Sun and kissed and embraced her fondly,
and she gave the horn into his hands, and he went forth and up on to the
Hill of Speech, and blew thence a short blast on the horn, and then came
all the Warriors flocking to the Hill of Speech, each man stark in his
harness, alert and joyous.
Then presently through the Man's-door came the Hall-Sun in that ancient
garment, which fell straight and stiff down to her ancles as she stepped
lightly and slowly along, her head crowned with a garland of eglantine.
In her right hand also she held a great torch of wax lighted, whose flame
amidst the bright sunlight looked like a wavering leaf of vermilion.
The warriors saw her, and made a lane for her, and she made her way
through it up to the Hill of Speech, and she went up to the top of it and
stood there holding the lighted candle in her hand, so that all might see
it. Then suddenly was there as great a silence as there may be on a
forenoon of summer; for even the thralls down in the meadow had noted
what was toward, and ceased their talking and shouting, for as far off as
they were, since they could see that the Hall-Sun stood on the Hill of
Speech, for the wood was dark behind her; so they knew the Farewell Flame
was lighted, and that the maiden would speak; and to all men her speech
was a boding of good or of ill.
So she began in a sweet voice yet clear and far-reaching:
"O Warriors of the Wolfings by the token of the flame
That here in my right hand flickers, come aback to the House of the
Name!
For there yet burneth the Hall-Sun beneath the Wolfing roof,
And this flame is litten from it, nor as now shall it fare aloof
Till again it seeth the mighty and the men to be gleaned from the
fight.
So wend ye as weird willeth and let your hearts be light;
For through your days of battle all the deeds of our days shall be
fair.
To-morrow beginneth the haysel, as if every carle were here;
And who knoweth ere your returning but the hook shall smite the corn?
But the kine shall go down to the meadow as their wont is every morn,
And each eve shall come back to the byre; and the mares and foals
afield
Shall ever be heeded duly; and all things shall their increase yield.
And if it shall befal us that hither cometh a foe
Here have we swains of the shepherds good players with the bow,
And old men battle-crafty whose might is nowise spent,
And women fell and fearless well wont to tread the bent
Amid the sheep and the oxen; and their hands are hard with the spear
And their arms are strong and stalwart the battle shield to bear;
And store of weapons have we and the mighty walls of the stead;
And the Roof shall abide you steadfast with the Hall-Sun overhead.
Lo here I quench this candle that is lit from the Hall-Sun's flame
Which unto the Wild-wood clearing with the kin of the Wolfings came
And shall wend with their departure to the limits of the earth;
Nor again shall the torch be lighted till in sorrow or in mirth,
Overthrown or overthrowing, ye come aback once more,
And bid me bear the candle before the Wolf of War."
As she spake the word she turned the candle downward, and thrust it
against the grass and quenched it indeed; but the whole throng of
warriors turned about, for the bulls of the banner-wain lowered their
heads in the yokes and began to draw, lowing mightily; and the wain
creaked and moved on, and all the men-at-arms followed after, and down
they went through the lanes of the corn, and a many women and children
and old men went down into the mead with them.
In their hearts they all wondered what the Hall-Sun's words might
signify; for she had told them nought about the battles to be, saving
that some should come back to the Mid-mark; whereas aforetime somewhat
would she foretell to them concerning the fortune of the fight, and now
had she said to them nothing but what their own hearts told them.
Nevertheless they bore their crests high as they followed the Wolf down
into the meadow, where all was now ready for departure. There they
arrayed themselves and went down to the lip of Mirkwood-water; and such
was their array that the banner went first, save that a band of fully
armed men went before it; and behind it and about were the others as well
arrayed as they. Then went the wains that bore their munition, with
armed carles of the thrall-folk about them, who were ever the guard of
the wains, and should never leave them night or day; and lastly went the
great band of the warriors and the rest of the thralls with them.
As to their war-gear, all the freemen had helms of some kind, but not all
of iron or steel; for some bore helms fashioned of horse-hide and bull-
hide covered over with the similitude of a Wolf's muzzle; nor were these
ill-defence against a sword-stroke. Shields they all had, and all these
had the image of the Wolf marked on them, but for many their thralls bore
them on the journey. As to their body-armour some carried long byrnies
of ring-mail, some coats of leather covered with splinters of horn laid
like the shingles of a roof, and some skin-coats only: whereof indeed
there were some of which tales went that they were better than the
smith's hammer-work, because they had had spells sung over them to keep
out steel or iron.
But for their weapons, they bore spears with shafts not very long, some
eight feet of our measure; and axes heavy and long-shafted; and bills
with great and broad heads; and some few, but not many of the kindred
were bowmen, and every freeman was girt with a sword; but of the swords
some were long and two-edged, some short and heavy, cutting on one edge,
and these were of the kind which they and our forefathers long after
called 'sax.' Thus were the freemen arrayed.
But for the thralls, there were many bows among them, especially among
those who were of blood alien from the Goths; the others bore short
spears, and feathered broad arrows, and clubs bound with iron, and knives
and axes, but not every man of them had a sword. Few iron helms they had
and no ringed byrnies, but most had a buckler at their backs with no sign
or symbol on it.
Thus then set forth the fighting men of the House of the Wolf toward the
Thing-stead of the Upper-mark where the hosting was to be, and by then
they were moving up along the side of Mirkwood-water it was somewhat past
high-noon.
But the stay-at-home people who had come down with them to the meadow
lingered long in that place; and much foreboding there was among them of
evil to come; and of the old folk, some remembered tales of the past days
of the Markmen, and how they had come from the ends of the earth, and the
mountains where none dwell now but the Gods of their kindreds; and many
of these tales told of their woes and their wars as they went from river
to river and from wild-wood to wild-wood before they had established
their Houses in the Mark, and fallen to dwelling there season by season
and year by year whether the days were good or ill. And it fell into
their hearts that now at last mayhappen was their abiding wearing out to
an end, and that the day should soon be when they should have to bear the
Hall-Sun through the wild-wood, and seek a new dwelling-place afar from
the troubling of these newly arisen Welsh foemen.
And so those of them who could not rid themselves of this foreboding were
somewhat heavier of heart than their wont was when the House went to the
War. For long had they abided there in the Mark, and the life was sweet
to them which they knew, and the life which they knew not was bitter to
them: and Mirkwood-water was become as a God to them no less than to
their fathers of old time; nor lesser was the mead where fed the horses
that they loved and the kine that they had reared, and the sheep that
they guarded from the Wolf of the Wild-wood: and they worshipped the kind
acres which they themselves and their fathers had made fruitful, wedding
them to the seasons of seed-time and harvest, that the birth that came
from them might become a part of the kindred of the Wolf, and the joy and
might of past springs and summers might run in the blood of the Wolfing
children. And a dear God indeed to them was the Roof of the Kindred,
that their fathers had built and that they yet warded against the fire
and the lightening and the wind and the snow, and the passing of the days
that devour and the years that heap the dust over the work of men. They
thought of how it had stood, and seen so many generations of men come and
go; how often it had welcomed the new-born babe, and given farewell to
the old man: how many secrets of the past it knew; how many tales which
men of the present had forgotten, but which yet mayhap men of times to
come should learn of it; for to them yet living it had spoken time and
again, and had told them what their fathers had not told them, and it
held the memories of the generations and the very life of the Wolfings
and their hopes for the days to be.
Thus these poor people thought of the Gods whom they worshipped, and the
friends whom they loved, and could not choose but be heavy-hearted when
they thought that the wild-wood was awaiting them to swallow all up, and
take away from them their Gods and their friends and the mirth of their
life, and burden them with hunger and thirst and weariness, that their
children might begin once more to build the House and establish the
dwelling, and call new places by old names, and worship new Gods with the
ancient worship.
Such imaginations of trouble then were in the hearts of the stay-at-homes
of the Wolfings; the tale tells not indeed that all had such forebodings,
but chiefly the old folk who were nursing the end of their life-days
amidst the cherishing Kindred of the House.
But now they were beginning to turn them back again to the habitations,
and a thin stream was flowing through the acres, when they heard a
confused sound drawing near blended of horns and the lowing of beasts and
the shouting of men; and they looked and saw a throng of brightly clad
men coming up stream alongside of Mirkwood-water; and they were not
afraid, for they knew that it must be some other company of the Markmen
journeying to the hosting of the Folk: and presently they saw that it was
the House of the Beamings following their banner on the way to the Thing-
stead. But when the new-comers saw the throng out in the meads, some of
their young men pricked on their horses and galloped on past the women
and old men, to whom they threw a greeting, as they ran past to catch up
with the bands of the Wolfings; for between the two houses was there
affinity, and much good liking lay between them; and the stay-at-homes,
many of them, lingered yet till the main body of the Beamings came with
their banner: and their array was much like to that of the Wolfings, but
gayer; for whereas it pleased the latter to darken all their war-gear to
the colour of the grey Wolf, the Beamings polished all their gear as
bright as might be, and their raiment also was mostly bright green of hue
and much beflowered; and the sign on their banner was a green leafy tree,
and the wain was drawn by great white bulls.
So when their company drew anear to the throng of the stay-at-homes they
went to meet and greet each other, and tell tidings to each other; but
their banner held steadily onward amidst their converse, and in a little
while they followed it, for the way was long to the Thing-stead of the
Upper-mark.
So passed away the fighting men by the side of Mirkwood-water, and the
throng of the stay-at-homes melted slowly from the meadow and trickled
along through the acres to the habitations of the Wolfings, and there
they fell to doing whatso of work or play came to their hands.
CHAPTER V--CONCERNING THE HALL-SUN
When the warriors and the others had gone down to the mead, the Hall-Sun
was left standing on the Hill of Speech, and she stood there till she saw
the host in due array going on its ways dark and bright and beautiful;
then she made as if to turn aback to the Great Roof; but all at once it
seemed to her as if something held her back, as if her will to move had
departed from her, and that she could not put one foot before the other.
So she lingered on the Hill, and the quenched candle fell from her hand,
and presently she sank adown on the grass and sat there with the face of
one thinking intently. Yet was it with her that a thousand thoughts were
in her mind at once and no one of them uppermost, and images of what had
been and what then was flickered about in her brain, and betwixt them
were engendered images of things to be, but unstable and not to be trowed
in. So sat the Hall-Sun on the Hill of Speech lost in a dream of the
day, whose stories were as little clear as those of a night-dream.
But as she sat musing thus, came to her a woman exceeding old to look on,
whom she knew not as one of the kindred or a thrall; and this carline
greeted her by the name of Hall-Sun and said:
"Hail, Hall-Sun of the Markmen! how fares it now with thee
When the whelps of the Woodbeast wander with the Leafage of the Tree
All up the Mirkwood-water to seek what they shall find,
The oak-boles of the battle and the war-wood stark and blind?"
Then answered the maiden:
"It fares with me, O mother, that my soul would fain go forth
To behold the ways of the battle, and the praise of the warriors'
worth.
But yet is it held entangled in a maze of many a thing,
As the low-grown bramble holdeth the brake-shoots of the Spring.
I think of the thing that hath been, but no shape is in my thought;
I think of the day that passeth, and its story comes to nought.
I think of the days that shall be, nor shape I any tale.
I will hearken thee, O mother, if hearkening may avail."
The Carline gazed at her with dark eyes that shone brightly from amidst
her brown wrinkled face: then she sat herself down beside her and spake:
"From a far folk have I wandered and I come of an alien blood,
But I know all tales of the Wolfings and their evil and their good;
And when I heard of thy fairness, thereof I heard it said,
That for thee should be never a bridal nor a place in the warrior's
bed."
The maiden neither reddened nor paled, but looking with calm steady eyes
into the Carline's face she answered:
"Yea true it is, I am wedded to the mighty ones of old,
And the fathers of the Wolfings ere the days of field and fold."
Then a smile came into the eyes of the old woman and she said.
"How glad shall be thy mother of thy worship and thy worth,
And the father that begat thee if yet they dwell on earth!"
But the Hall-Sun answered in the same steady manner as before:
"None knoweth who is my mother, nor my very father's name;
But when to the House of the Wolfings a wild-wood waif I came,
They gave me a foster-mother an ancient dame and good,
And a glorious foster-father the best of all the blood."
Spake the Carline.
"Yea, I have heard the story, but scarce therein might I trow
That thou with all thy beauty wert born 'neath the oaken bough,
And hast crawled a naked baby o'er the rain-drenched autumn-grass;
Wilt thou tell the wandering woman what wise it cometh to pass
That thou art the Mid-mark's Hall-Sun, and the sign of the Wolfings'
gain?
Thou shalt pleasure me much by the telling, and there of shalt thou be
fain."
Then answered the Hall-Sun.
"Yea; thus much I remember for the first of my memories;
That I lay on the grass in the morning and above were the boughs of
the trees.
But nought naked was I as the wood-whelp, but clad in linen white,
And adown the glades of the oakwood the morning sun lay bright.
Then a hind came out of the thicket and stood on the sunlit glade,
And turned her head toward the oak tree and a step on toward me made.
Then stopped, and bounded aback, and away as if in fear,
That I saw her no more; then I wondered, though sitting close anear
Was a she-wolf great and grisly. But with her was I wont to play,
And pull her ears, and belabour her rugged sides and grey,
And hold her jaws together, while she whimpered, slobbering
For the love of my love; and nowise I deemed her a fearsome thing.
There she sat as though she were watching, and o'er head a blue-winged
jay
Shrieked out from the topmost oak-twigs, and a squirrel ran his way
Two tree-trunks off. But the she-wolf arose up suddenly
And growled with her neck-fell bristling, as if danger drew anigh;
And therewith I heard a footstep, for nice was my ear to catch
All the noises of the wild-wood; so there did we sit at watch
While the sound of feet grew nigher: then I clapped hand on hand
And crowed for joy and gladness, for there out in the sun did stand
A man, a glorious creature with a gleaming helm on his head,
And gold rings on his arms, in raiment gold-broidered crimson-red.
Straightway he strode up toward us nor heeded the wolf of the wood
But sang as he went in the oak-glade, as a man whose thought is good,
And nought she heeded the warrior, but tame as a sheep was grown,
And trotted away through the wild-wood with her crest all laid adown.
Then came the man and sat down by the oak-bole close unto me
And took me up nought fearful and set me on his knee.
And his face was kind and lovely, so my cheek to his cheek I laid
And touched his cold bright war-helm and with his gold rings played,
And hearkened his words, though I knew not what tale they had to tell,
Yet fain was my heart of their music, and meseemed I loved him well.
So we fared for a while and were fain, till he set down my feet on the
grass,
And kissed me and stood up himself, and away through the wood did he
pass.
And then came back the she-wolf and with her I played and was fain.
Lo the first thing I remember: wilt thou have me babble again?"
Spake the Carline and her face was soft and kind:
"Nay damsel, long would I hearken to thy voice this summer day.
But how didst thou leave the wild-wood, what people brought thee
away?"
Then said the Hall-Sun:
"I awoke on a time in the even, and voices I heard as I woke;
And there was I in the wild-wood by the bole of the ancient oak,
And a ring of men was around me, and glad was I indeed
As I looked upon their faces and the fashion of their weed.
For I gazed on the red and the scarlet and the beaten silver and gold,
And blithe were their noble faces and kindly to behold,
And nought had I seen of such-like since that hour of the other day
When that warrior came to the oak glade with the little child to play.
And forth now he came, with the face that my hands had fondled before,
And a battle shield wrought fairly upon his arm he bore,
And thereon the wood-wolf's image in ruddy gold was done.
Then I stretched out my little arms towards the glorious shining one
And he took me up and set me on his shoulder for a while
And turned about to his fellows with a blithe and joyous smile;
And they shouted aloud about me and drew forth gleaming swords
And clashed them on their bucklers; but nought I knew of the words
Of their shouting and rejoicing. So thereafter was I laid
And borne forth on the warrior's warshield, and our way through the
wood we made
'Midst the mirth and great contentment of those fair-clad shielded
men.
"But no tale of the wolf and the wild-wood abides with me since then,
And the next thing I remember is a huge and dusky hall,
A world for my little body from ancient wall to wall;
A world of many doings, and nought for me to do,
A world of many noises, and known to me were few.
"Time wore, and I spoke with the Wolfings and knew the speech of the
kin,
And was strange 'neath the roof no longer, as a lonely waif therein;
And I wrought as a child with my playmates and every hour looked on
Unto the next hour's joyance till the happy day was done.
And going and coming amidst us was a woman tall and thin
With hair like the hoary barley and silver streaks therein.
And kind and sad of visage, as now I remember me,
And she sat and told us stories when we were aweary with glee,
And many of us she fondled, but me the most of all.
And once from my sleep she waked me and bore me down the hall,
In the hush of the very midnight, and I was feared thereat.
But she brought me unto the dais, and there the warrior sat,
Who took me up and kissed me, as erst within the wood;
And meseems in his arms I slumbered: but I wakened again and stood
Alone with the kindly woman, and gone was the goodly man,
And athwart the hush of the Folk-hall the moon shone bright and wan,
And the woman dealt with a lamp hung up by a chain aloft,
And she trimmed it and fed it with oil, while she chanted sweet and
soft
A song whose words I knew not: then she ran it up again,
And up in the darkness above us died the length of its wavering
chain."
"Yea," said the carline, "this woman will have been the Hall-Sun that
came before thee. What next dost thou remember?"
Said the maiden:
"Next I mind me of the hazels behind the People's Roof,
And the children running thither and the magpie flitting aloof,
And my hand in the hand of the Hall-Sun, as after the others we went,
And she soberly hearkening my prattle and the words of my intent.
And now would I call her 'Mother,' and indeed I loved her well.
"So I waxed; and now of my memories the tale were long to tell;
But as the days passed over, and I fared to field and wood,
Alone or with my playmates, still the days were fair and good.
But the sad and kindly Hall-Sun for my fosterer now I knew,
And the great and glorious warrior that my heart clung sorely to
Was but my foster-father; and I knew that I had no kin
In the ancient House of the Wolfings, though love was warm therein."
Then smiled the carline and said: "Yea, he is thy foster-father, and yet
a fond one."
"Sooth is that," said the Hall-Sun. "But wise art thou by seeming. Hast
thou come to tell me of what kindred I am, and who is my father and who
is my mother?"
Said the carline: "Art thou not also wise? Is it not so that the Hall-
Sun of the Wolfings seeth things that are to come?"
"Yea," she said, "yet have I seen waking or sleeping no other father save
my foster-father; yet my very mother I have seen, as one who should meet
her in the flesh one day."
"And good is that," said the carline; and as she spoke her face waxed
kinder, and she said:
"Tell us more of thy days in the House of the Wolfings and how thou
faredst there."
Said the Hall-Sun:
"I waxed 'neath the Roof of the Wolfings, till now to look upon
I was of sixteen winters, and the love of the Folk I won,
And in lovely weed they clad me like the image of a God:
And lonely now full often the wild-wood ways I trod,
And I feared no wild-wood creature, and my presence scared them
nought;
And I fell to know of wisdom, and within me stirred my thought,
So that oft anights would I wander through the mead and far away,
And swim the Mirkwood-water, and amidst his eddies play
When earth was dark in the dawn-tide; and over all the folk
I knew of the beasts' desires, as though in words they spoke.
"So I saw of things that should be, were they mighty things or small,
And upon a day as it happened came the war-word to the hall,
And the House must wend to the warfield, and as they sang, and played
With the strings of the harp that even, and the mirth of the war-eve
made,
Came the sight of the field to my eyes, and the words waxed hot in me,
And I needs must show the picture of the end of the fight to be.
Then I showed them the Red Wolf bristling o'er the broken fleeing foe;
And the war-gear of the fleers, and their banner did I show,
To wit the Ling-worm's image with the maiden in his mouth;
There I saw my foster-father 'mid the pale blades of the South,
Till aloof swept all the handplay and the hurry of the chase,
And he lay along by an ash-tree, no helm about his face,
No byrny on his body; and an arrow in his thigh,
And a broken spear in his shoulder. Then I saw myself draw nigh
To sing the song blood-staying. Then saw I how we twain
Went 'midst of the host triumphant in the Wolfings' banner-wain,
The black bulls lowing before us athwart the warriors' song,
As up from Mirkwood-water we went our ways along
To the Great Roof of the Wolfings, whence streamed the women out
And the sound of their rejoicing blent with the warriors' shout.
"They heard me and saw the picture, and they wotted how wise I was
grown,
And they loved me, and glad were their hearts at the tale my lips had
shown;
And my body clad as an image of a God to the field they bore,
And I held by the mast of the banner as I looked upon their war,
And endured to see unblenching on the wind-swept sunny plain
All the picture of my vision by the men-folk done again.
And over my Foster-father I sang the staunching-song,
Till the life-blood that was ebbing flowed back to his heart the
strong,
And we wended back in the war-wain 'midst the gleanings of the fight
Unto the ancient dwelling and the Hall-Sun's glimmering light.
"So from that day henceforward folk hung upon my words,
For the battle of the autumn, and the harvest of the swords;
And e'en more was I loved than aforetime. So wore a year away,
And heavy was the burden of the lore that on me lay.
"But my fosterer the Hall-Sun took sick at the birth of the year,
And changed her life as the year changed, as summer drew anear.
But she knew that her life was waning, and lying in her bed
She taught me the lore of the Hall-Sun, and every word to be said
At the trimming in the midnight and the feeding in the morn,
And she laid her hands upon me ere unto the howe she was borne
With the kindred gathered about us; and they wotted her weird and her
will,
And hailed me for the Hall-Sun when at last she lay there still.
And they did on me the garment, the holy cloth of old,
And the neck-chain wrought for the goddess, and the rings of the
hallowed gold.
So here am I abiding, and of things to be I tell,
Yet know not what shall befall me nor why with the Wolfings I dwell."
Then said the carline:
"What seest thou, O daughter, of the journey of to-day?
And why wendest thou not with the war-host on the battle-echoing way?"
Said the Hall-Sun.
"O mother, here dwelleth the Hall-Sun while the kin hath a dwelling-
place,
Nor ever again shall I look on the onset or the chase,
Till the day when the Roof of the Wolfings looketh down on the girdle
of foes,
And the arrow singeth over the grass of the kindred's close;
Till the pillars shake with the shouting and quivers the roof-tree
dear,
When the Hall of the Wolfings garners the harvest of the spear."
Therewith she stood on her feet and turned her face to the Great Roof,
and gazed long at it, not heeding the crone by her side; and she muttered
words of whose signification the other knew not, though she listened
intently, and gazed ever at her as closely as might be.
Then fell the Hall-Sun utterly silent, and the lids closed over her eyes,
and her hands were clenched, and her feet pressed hard on the daisies:
her bosom heaved with sore sighs, and great tear-drops oozed from under
her eyelids and fell on to her raiment and her feet and on to the flowery
summer grass; and at the last her mouth opened and she spake, but in a
voice that was marvellously changed from that she spake in before:
"Why went ye forth, O Wolfings, from the garth your fathers built,
And the House where sorrow dieth, and all unloosed is guilt?
Turn back, turn back, and behold it! lest your feet be over slow
When your shields are heavy-burdened with the arrows of the foe;
How ye totter, how ye stumble on the rough and corpse-strewn way!
And lo, how the eve is eating the afternoon of day!
O why are ye abiding till the sun is sunk in night
And the forest trees are ruddy with the battle-kindled light?
O rest not yet, ye Wolfings, lest void be your resting-place,
And into lands that ye know not the Wolf must turn his face,
And ye wander and ye wander till the land in the ocean cease,
And your battle bring no safety and your labour no increase."
Then was she silent for a while, and her tears ceased to flow; but
presently her eyes opened once more, and she lifted up her voice and
cried aloud--
"I see, I see! O Godfolk behold it from aloof,
How the little flames steal flickering along the ridge of the Roof!
They are small and red 'gainst the heavens in the summer afternoon;
But when the day is dusking, white, high shall they wave to the moon.
Lo, the fire plays now on the windows like strips of scarlet cloth
Wind-waved! but look in the night-tide on the onset of its wrath,
How it wraps round the ancient timbers and hides the mighty roof
But lighteth little crannies, so lost and far aloof,
That no man yet of the kindred hath seen them ere to-night,
Since first the builder builded in loving and delight!"
Then again she stayed her speech with weeping and sobbing, but after a
while was still again, and then she spoke pointing toward the roof with
her right hand.
"I see the fire-raisers and iron-helmed they are,
Brown-faced about the banners that their hands have borne afar.
And who in the garth of the kindred shall bear adown their shield
Since the onrush of the Wolfings they caught in the open field,
As the might of the mountain lion falls dead in the hempen net?
O Wolfings, long have ye tarried, but the hour abideth yet.
What life for the life of the people shall be given once for all,
What sorrow shall stay sorrow in the half-burnt Wolfing Hall?
There is nought shall quench the fire save the tears of the Godfolk's
kin,
And the heart of the life-delighter, and the life-blood cast therein."
Then once again she fell silent, and her eyes closed again, and the slow
tears gushed out from them, and she sank down sobbing on the grass, and
little by little the storm of grief sank and her head fell back, and she
was as one quietly asleep. Then the carline hung over her and kissed her
and embraced her; and then through her closed eyes and her slumber did
the Hall-Sun see a marvel; for she who was kissing her was young in
semblance and unwrinkled, and lovely to look on, with plenteous long hair
of the hue of ripe barley, and clad in glistening raiment such as has
been woven in no loom on earth.
And indeed it was the Wood-Sun in the semblance of a crone, who had come
to gather wisdom of the coming time from the foreseeing of the Hall-Sun;
since now at last she herself foresaw nothing of it, though she was of
the kindred of the Gods and the Fathers of the Goths. So when she had
heard the Hall-Sun she deemed that she knew but too well what her words
meant, and what for love, what for sorrow, she grew sick at heart as she
heard them.
So at last she arose and turned to look at the Great Roof; and strong and
straight, and cool and dark grey showed its ridge against the pale sky of
the summer afternoon all quivering with the heat of many hours' sun: dark
showed its windows as she gazed on it, and stark and stiff she knew were
its pillars within.
Then she said aloud, but to herself: "What then if a merry and mighty
life be given for it, and the sorrow of the people be redeemed; yet will
not I give the life which is his; nay rather let him give the bliss which
is mine. But oh! how may it be that he shall die joyous and I shall live
unhappy!"
Then she went slowly down from the Hill of Speech, and whoso saw her
deemed her but a gangrel carline. So she went her ways and let the wood
cover her.
But in a little while the Hall-Sun awoke alone, and sat up with a sigh,
and she remembered nothing concerning her sight of the flickering flame
along the hall-roof, and the fire-tongues like strips of scarlet cloth
blown by the wind, nor had she any memory of her words concerning the
coming day. But the rest of her talk with the carline she remembered,
and also the vision of the beautiful woman who had kissed and embraced
her; and she knew that it was her very mother. Also she perceived that
she had been weeping, therefore she knew that she had uttered words of
wisdom. For so it fared with her at whiles, that she knew not her own
words of foretelling, but spoke them out as if in a dream.
So now she went down from the Hill of Speech soberly, and turned toward
the Woman's door of the hall, and on her way she met the women and old
men and youths coming back from the meadow with little mirth: and there
were many of them who looked shyly at her as though they would gladly
have asked her somewhat, and yet durst not. But for her, her sadness
passed away when she came among them, and she looked kindly on this and
that one of them, and entered with them into the Woman's Chamber, and did
what came to her hand to do.
CHAPTER VI--THEY TALK ON THE WAY TO THE FOLK-THING
All day long one standing on the Speech-hill of the Wolfings might have
seen men in their war-array streaming along the side of Mirkwood-water,
on both sides thereof; and the last comers from the Nether-mark came
hastening all they might; for they would not be late at the
trysting-place. But these were of a kindred called the Laxings, who bore
a salmon on their banner; and they were somewhat few in number, for they
had but of late years become a House of the Markmen. Their banner-wain
was drawn by white horses, fleet and strong, and they were no great band,
for they had but few thralls with them, and all, free men and thralls,
were a-horseback; so they rode by hastily with their banner-wain, their
few munition-wains following as they might.
Now tells the tale of the men-at-arms of the Wolfings and the Beamings,
that soon they fell in with the Elking host, which was journeying but
leisurely, so that the Wolfings might catch up with them: they were a
very great kindred, the most numerous of all Mid-mark, and at this time
they had affinity with the Wolfings. But old men of the House remembered
how they had heard their grandsires and very old men tell that there had
been a time when the Elking House had been established by men from out of
the Wolfing kindred, and how they had wandered away from the Mark in the
days when it had been first settled, and had abided aloof for many
generations of men; and so at last had come back again to the Mark, and
had taken up their habitation at a place in Mid-mark where was dwelling
but a remnant of a House called the Thyrings, who had once been exceeding
mighty, but had by that time almost utterly perished in a great sickness
which befel in those days. So then these two Houses, the wanderers come
back and the remnant left by the sickness of the Gods, made one House
together, and increased and throve after their coming together, and
wedded with the Wolfings, and became a very great House.
Gallant and glorious was their array now, as they marched along with
their banner of the Elk, which was drawn by the very beasts themselves
tamed to draught to that end through many generations; they were fatter
and sleeker than their wild-wood brethren, but not so mighty.
So were the men of the three kindreds somewhat mingled together on the
way. The Wolfings were the tallest and the biggest made; but of those
dark-haired men aforesaid, were there fewest amongst the Beamings, and
most among the Elkings, as though they had drawn to them more men of
alien blood during their wanderings aforesaid. So they talked together
and made each other good cheer, as is the wont of companions in arms on
the eve of battle; and the talk ran, as may be deemed, on that journey
and what was likely to come of it: and spake an Elking warrior to a
Wolfing by whom he rode:
"O Wolfkettle, hath the Hall-Sun had any foresight of the day of battle?"
"Nay," said the other, "when she lighted the farewell candle, she bade us
come back again, and spoke of the day of our return; but that methinks,
as thou and I would talk of it, thinking what would be likely to befal.
Since we are a great host of valiant men, and these Welshmen {2} most
valiant, and as the rumour runneth bigger-bodied men than the Hun-folk,
and so well ordered as never folk have been. So then if we overthrow
them we shall come back again; and if they overthrow us, the remnant of
us shall fall back before them till we come to our habitations; for it is
not to be looked for that they will fall in upon our rear and prevent us,
since we have the thicket of the wild-wood on our flanks."
"Sooth is that," said the Elking; "and as to the mightiness of this folk
and their customs, ye may gather somewhat from the songs which our House
yet singeth, and which ye have heard wide about in the Mark; for this is
the same folk of which a many of them tell, making up that story-lay
which is called the South-Welsh Lay; which telleth how we have met this
folk in times past when we were in fellowship with a folk of the Welsh of
like customs to ourselves: for we of the Elkings were then but a feeble
folk. So we marched with this folk of the Kymry and met the men of the
cities, and whiles we overthrew and whiles were overthrown, but at last
in a great battle were overthrown with so great a slaughter, that the red
blood rose over the wheels of the wains, and the city-folk fainted with
the work of the slaughter, as men who mow a match in the meadows when the
swathes are dry and heavy and the afternoon of midsummer is hot; and
there they stood and stared on the field of the slain, and knew not
whether they were in Home or Hell, so fierce the fight had been."
Therewith a man of the Beamings, who was riding on the other side of the
Elking, reached out over his horse's neck and said:
"Yea friend, but is there not some telling of a tale concerning how ye
and your fellowship took the great city of the Welshmen of the South, and
dwelt there long."
"Yea," said the Elking, "Hearken how it is told in the South-Welsh Lay:
"'Have ye not heard
Of the ways of Weird?
How the folk fared forth
Far away from the North?
And as light as one wendeth
Whereas the wood endeth,
When of nought is our need,
And none telleth our deed,
So Rodgeir unwearied and Reidfari wan
The town where none tarried the shield-shaking man.
All lonely the street there, and void was the way
And nought hindered our feet but the dead men that lay
Under shield in the lanes of the houses heavens-high,
All the ring-bearing swains that abode there to die.'
"Tells the Lay, that none abode the Goths and their fellowship, but such
as were mighty enough to fall before them, and the rest, both man and
woman, fled away before our folk and before the folk of the Kymry, and
left their town for us to dwell in; as saith the Lay:
"'Glistening of gold
Did men's eyen behold;
Shook the pale sword
O'er the unspoken word,
No man drew nigh us
With weapon to try us,
For the Welsh-wrought shield
Lay low on the field.
By man's hand unbuilded all seemed there to be,
The walls ruddy gilded, the pearls of the sea:
Yea all things were dead there save pillar and wall,
But _they_ lived and _they_ said us the song of the hall;
The dear hall left to perish by men of the land,
For the Goth-folk to cherish with gold gaining hand.'
"See ye how the Lay tells that the hall was bolder than the men, who fled
from it, and left all for our fellowship to deal with in the days gone
by?"
Said the Wolfing man:
"And as it was once, so shall it be again. Maybe we shall go far on this
journey, and see at least one of the garths of the Southlands, even those
which they call cities. For I have heard it said that they have more
cities than one only, and that so great are their kindreds, that each
liveth in a garth full of mighty houses, with a wall of stone and lime
around it; and that in every one of these garths lieth wealth untold
heaped up. And wherefore should not all this fall to the Markmen and
their valiancy?"
Said the Elking:
"As to their many cities and the wealth of them, that is sooth; but as to
each city being the habitation of each kindred, it is otherwise: for
rather it may be said of them that they have forgotten kindred, and have
none, nor do they heed whom they wed, and great is the confusion amongst
them. And mighty men among them ordain where they shall dwell, and what
shall be their meat, and how long they shall labour after they are weary,
and in all wise what manner of life shall be amongst them; and though
they be called free men who suffer this, yet may no house or kindred
gainsay this rule and order. In sooth they are a people mighty, but
unhappy."
Said Wolfkettle:
"And hast thou learned all this from the ancient story lays, O Hiarandi?
For some of them I know, though not all, and therein have I noted nothing
of all this. Is there some new minstrel arisen in thine House of a
memory excelling all those that have gone before? If that be so, I bid
him to the Roof of the Wolfings as soon as may be; for we lack new
tales."
"Nay," said Hiarandi, "This that I tell thee is not a tale of past days,
but a tale of to-day. For there came to us a man from out of the wild-
wood, and prayed us peace, and we gave it him; and he told us that he was
of a House of the Gael, and that his House had been in a great battle
against these Welshmen, whom he calleth the Romans; and that he was taken
in the battle, and sold as a thrall in one of their garths; and howbeit,
it was not their master-garth, yet there he learned of their customs: and
sore was the lesson! Hard was his life amongst them, for their thralls
be not so well entreated as their draught-beasts, so many do they take in
battle; for they are a mighty folk; and these thralls and those aforesaid
unhappy freemen do all tilling and herding and all deeds of
craftsmanship: and above these are men whom they call masters and lords
who do nought, nay not so much as smithy their own edge-weapons, but
linger out their days in their dwellings and out of their dwellings,
lying about in the sun or the hall-cinders, like cur-dogs who have fallen
away from kind.
"So this man made a shift to flee away from out of that garth, since it
was not far from the great river; and being a valiant man, and young and
mighty of body, he escaped all perils and came to us through the
Mirkwood. But we saw that he was no liar, and had been very evilly
handled, for upon his body was the mark of many a stripe, and of the
shackles that had been soldered on to his limbs; also it was more than
one of these accursed people whom he had slain when he fled. So he
became our guest and we loved him, and he dwelt among us and yet
dwelleth, for we have taken him into our House. But yesterday he was
sick and might not ride with us; but may be he will follow on and catch
up with us in a day or two. And if he come not, then will I bring him
over to the Wolfings when the battle is done."
Then laughed the Beaming man, and spake:
"How then if ye come not back, nor Wolfkettle, nor the Welsh Guest, nor I
myself? Meseemeth no one of these Southland Cities shall we behold, and
no more of the Southlanders than their war-array."
"These are evil words," said Wolfkettle, "though such an outcome must be
thought on. But why deemest thou this?"
Said the Beaming: "There is no Hall-Sun sitting under our Roof at home to
tell true tales concerning the Kindred every day. Yet forsooth from time
to time is a word said in our Folk-hall for good or for evil; and who can
choose but hearken thereto? And yestereve was a woeful word spoken, and
that by a man-child of ten winters."
Said the Elking: "Now that thou hast told us thus much, thou must tell us
more, yea, all the word which was spoken; else belike we shall deem of it
as worse than it was."
Said the Beaming: "Thus it was; this little lad brake out weeping
yestereve, when the Hall was full and feasting; and he wailed, and roared
out, as children do, and would not be pacified, and when he was asked why
he made that to do, he said: 'Well away! Raven hath promised to make me
a clay horse and to bake it in the kiln with the pots next week; and now
he goeth to the war, and he shall never come back, and never shall my
horse be made.' Thereat we all laughed as ye may well deem. But the lad
made a sour countenance on us and said, 'why do ye laugh? look yonder,
what see ye?' 'Nay,' said one, 'nought but the Feast-hall wall and the
hangings of the High-tide thereon.' Then said the lad sobbing: 'Ye see
ill: further afield see I: I see a little plain, on a hill top, and fells
beyond it far bigger than our speech-hill: and there on the plain lieth
Raven as white as parchment; and none hath such hue save the dead.' Then
said Raven, (and he was a young man, and was standing thereby). 'And
well is that, swain, to die in harness! Yet hold up thine heart; here is
Gunbert who shall come back and bake thine horse for thee.' 'Nay never
more,' quoth the child, 'For I see his pale head lying at Raven's feet;
but his body with the green gold-broidered kirtle I see not.' Then was
the laughter stilled, and man after man drew near to the child, and
questioned him, and asked, 'dost thou see me?' 'dost thou see me?' And
he failed to see but few of those that asked him. Therefore now
meseemeth that not many of us shall see the cities of the South, and
those few belike shall look on their own shackles therewithal."
"Nay," said Hiarandi, "What is all this? heard ye ever of a company of
fighting men that fared afield, and found the foe, and came back home
leaving none behind them?"
Said the Beaming: "Yet seldom have I heard a child foretell the death of
warriors. I tell thee that hadst thou been there, thou wouldst have
thought of it as if the world were coming to an end."
"Well," said Wolfkettle, "let it be as it may! Yet at least I will not
be led away from the field by the foemen. Oft may a man be hindered of
victory, but never of death if he willeth it."
Therewith he handled a knife that hung about his neck, and went on to
say: "But indeed, I do much marvel that no word came into the mouth of
the Hall-Sun yestereven or this morning, but such as any woman of the
kindred might say."
Therewith fell their talk awhile, and as they rode they came to where the
wood drew nigher to the river, and thus the Mid-mark had an end; for
there was no House had a dwelling in the Mid-mark higher up the water
than the Elkings, save one only, not right great, who mostly fared to war
along with the Elkings: and this was the Oselings, whose banner bore the
image of the Wood-ousel, the black bird with the yellow neb; and they had
just fallen into the company of the greater House.
So now Mid-mark was over and past, and the serried trees of the wood came
down like a wall but a little way from the lip of the water; and
scattered trees, mostly quicken-trees grew here and there on the very
water side. But Mirkwood-water ran deep swift and narrow between high
clean-cloven banks, so that none could dream of fording, and not so many
of swimming its dark green dangerous waters. And the day wore on towards
evening and the glory of the western sky was unseen because of the wall
of high trees. And still the host made on, and because of the narrowness
of the space between river and wood it was strung out longer and looked a
very great company of men. And moreover the men of the eastern-lying
part of Mid-mark, were now marching thick and close on the other side of
the river but a little way from the Wolfings and their fellows; for
nothing but the narrow river sundered them.
So night fell, and the stars shone, and the moon rose, and yet the
Wolfings and their fellows stayed not, since they wotted that behind them
followed a many of the men of the Mark, both the Mid and the Nether, and
they would by no means hinder their march.
So wended the Markmen between wood and stream on either side of Mirkwood-
water, till now at last the night grew deep and the moon set, and it was
hard on midnight, and they had kindled many torches to light them on
either side of the water. So whereas they had come to a place where the
trees gave back somewhat from the river, which was well-grassed for their
horses and neat, and was called Baitmead, the companies on the western
side made stay there till morning. And they drew the wains right up to
the thick of the wood, and all men turned aside into the mead from the
beaten road, so that those who were following after might hold on their
way if so they would. There then they appointed watchers of the night,
while the rest of them lay upon the sward by the side of the trees, and
slept through the short summer night.
The tale tells not that any man dreamed of the fight to come in such wise
that there was much to tell of his dream on the morrow; many dreamed of
no fight or faring to war, but of matters little, and often laughable,
mere mingled memories of bygone time that had no waking wits to marshal
them.
But that man of the Beamings dreamed that he was at home watching a
potter, a man of the thralls of the House working at his wheel, and
fashioning bowls and ewers: and he had a mind to take of his clay and
fashion a horse for the lad that had bemoaned the promise of his toy. And
he tried long and failed to fashion anything; for the clay fell to pieces
in his hands; till at last it held together and grew suddenly, not into
an image of a horse, but of the Great Yule Boar, the similitude of the
Holy Beast of Frey. So he laughed in his sleep and was glad, and leaped
up and drew his sword with his clay-stained hands that he might wave it
over the Earth Boar, and swear a great oath of a doughty deed. And
therewith he found himself standing on his feet indeed, just awakened in
the cold dawn, and holding by his right hand to an ash-sapling that grew
beside him. So he laughed again, and laid him down, and leaned back and
slept his sleep out till the sun and the voices of his fellows stirring
awakened him.
CHAPTER VII--THEY GATHER TO THE FOLK-MOTE
When it was the morning, all the host of the Markmen was astir on either
side of the water, and when they had broken their fast, they got speedily
into array, and were presently on the road again; and the host was now
strung out longer yet, for the space between water and wood once more
diminished till at last it was no wider than ten men might go abreast,
and looking ahead it was as if the wild-wood swallowed up both river and
road.
But the fighting-men hastened on merrily with their hearts raised high,
since they knew that they would soon be falling in with more of their
people, and the coming fight was growing a clearer picture to their eyes;
so from side to side of the river they shouted out the cries of their
Houses, or friend called to friend across the eddies of Mirkwood-water,
and there was game and glee enough.
So they fared till the wood gave way before them, and lo, the beginning
of another plain, somewhat like the Mid-mark. There also the water
widened out before them, and there were eyots in it with stony shores
crowned with willow or with alder, and aspens rising from the midst of
them.
But as for the plain, it was thus much different from Mid-mark, that the
wood which begirt it rose on the south into low hills, and away beyond
them were other hills blue in the distance, for the most bare of wood,
and not right high, the pastures of the wild-bull and the bison, whereas
now dwelt a folk somewhat scattered and feeble; hunters and herdsmen,
with little tillage about their abodes, a folk akin to the Markmen and
allied to them. They had come into those parts later than the Markmen,
as the old tales told; which said moreover that in days gone by a folk
dwelt among those hills who were alien from the Goths, and great foes to
the Markmen; and how that on a time they came down from their hills with
a great host, together with new-comers of their own blood, and made their
way through the wild-wood, and fell upon the Upper-mark; and how that
there befel a fearful battle that endured for three days; and the first
day the Aliens worsted the Markmen, who were but a few, since they were
they of the Upper-mark only. So the Aliens burned their houses and slew
their old men, and drave off many of their women and children; and the
remnant of the men of the Upper-mark with all that they had, which was
now but little, took refuge in an island of Mirkwood-water, where they
fenced themselves as well as they could for that night; for they expected
the succour of their kindred of the Mid-mark and the Nether-mark, unto
whom they had sped the war-arrow when they first had tidings of the onset
of the Aliens.
So at the sun-rising they sacrificed to the Gods twenty chieftains of the
Aliens whom they had taken, and therewithal a maiden of their own
kindred, the daughter of their war-duke, that she might lead that mighty
company to the House of the Gods; and thereto was she nothing loth, but
went right willingly.
There then they awaited the onset. But the men of Mid-mark came up in
the morning, when the battle was but just joined, and fell on so fiercely
that the aliens gave back, and then they of the Upper-mark stormed out of
their eyot, and fell on over the ford, and fought till the water ran red
with their blood, and the blood of the foemen. So the Aliens gave back
before the onset of the Markmen all over the meads; but when they came to
the hillocks and the tofts of the half-burned habitations, and the wood
was on their flank, they made a stand again, and once more the battle
waxed hot, for they were very many, and had many bowmen: there fell the
War-duke of the Markmen, whose daughter had been offered up for victory,
and his name was Agni, so that the tofts where he fell have since been
called Agni's Tofts. So that day they fought all over the plain, and a
great many died, both of the Aliens and the Markmen, and though these
last were victorious, yet when the sun went down there still were the
Aliens abiding in the Upper-mark, fenced by their wain-burg, beaten, and
much diminished in number, but still a host of men: while of the Markmen
many had fallen, and many more were hurt, because the Aliens were good
bowmen.
But on the morrow again, as the old tale told, came up the men of the
Nether-mark fresh and unwounded; and so the battle began again on the
southern limit of the Upper-mark where the Aliens had made their wain-
burg. But not long did it endure; for the Markmen fell on so fiercely,
that they stormed over the wain-burg, and slew all before them, and there
was a very great slaughter of the Aliens; so great, tells the old tale,
that never again durst they meet the Markmen in war.
Thus went forth the host of the Markmen, faring along both sides of the
water into the Upper-mark; and on the west side, where went the Wolfings,
the ground now rose by a long slope into a low hill, and when they came
unto the brow thereof, they beheld before them the whole plain of the
Upper-mark, and the dwellings of the kindred therein all girdled about by
the wild-wood; and beyond, the blue hills of the herdsmen, and beyond
them still, a long way aloof, lying like a white cloud on the verge of
the heavens, the snowy tops of the great mountains. And as they looked
down on to the plain they saw it embroidered, as it were, round about the
habitations which lay within ken by crowds of many people, and the
banners of the kindreds and the arms of men; and many a place they saw
named after the ancient battle and that great slaughter of the Aliens.
On their left hand lay the river, and as it now fairly entered with them
into the Upper-mark, it spread out into wide rippling shallows beset with
yet more sandy eyots, amongst which was one much greater, rising amidmost
into a low hill, grassy and bare of tree or bush; and this was the island
whereon the Markmen stood on the first day of the Great Battle, and it
was now called the Island of the Gods.
Thereby was the ford, which was firm and good and changed little from
year to year, so that all Markmen knew it well and it was called
Battleford: thereover now crossed all the eastern companies, footmen and
horsemen, freemen and thralls, wains and banners, with shouting and
laughter, and the noise of horns and the lowing of neat, till all that
plain's end was flooded with the host of the Markmen.
But when the eastern-abiders had crossed, they made no stay, but went
duly ordered about their banners, winding on toward the first of the
abodes on the western side of the water; because it was but a little way
southwest of this that the Thing-stead of the Upper-mark lay; and the
whole Folk was summoned thither when war threatened from the South, just
as it was called to the Thing-stead of the Nether-mark, when the threat
of war came from the North. But the western companies stayed on the brow
of that low hill till all the eastern men were over the river, and on
their way to the Thing-stead, and then they moved on.
So came the Wolfings and their fellows up to the dwellings of the
northernmost kindred, who were called the Daylings, and bore on their
banner the image of the rising sun. Thereabout was the Mark somewhat
more hilly and broken than in the Mid-mark, so that the Great Roof of the
Daylings, which was a very big house, stood on a hillock whose sides had
been cleft down sheer on all sides save one (which was left as a bridge)
by the labour of men, and it was a very defensible place.
Thereon were now gathered round about the Roof all the stay-at-homes of
the kindred, who greeted with joyous cries the men-at-arms as they
passed. Albeit one very old man, who sat in a chair near to the edge of
the sheer hill looking on the war array, when he saw the Wolfing banner
draw near, stood up to gaze on it, and then shook his head sadly, and
sank back again into his chair, and covered his face with his hands: and
when the folk saw that, a silence bred of the coldness of fear fell on
them, for that elder was deemed a foreseeing man.
But as those three fellows, of whose talk of yesterday the tale has told,
drew near and beheld what the old carle did (for they were riding
together this day also) the Beaming man laid his hand on Wolfkettle's
rein and said:
"Lo you, neighbour, if thy Vala hath seen nought, yet hath this old man
seen somewhat, and that somewhat even as the little lad saw it. Many a
mother's son shall fall before the Welshmen."
But Wolfkettle shook his rein free, and his face reddened as of one who
is angry, yet he kept silence, while the Elking said:
"Let be, Toti! for he that lives shall tell the tale to the foreseers,
and shall make them wiser than they are to-day."
Then laughed Toti, as one who would not be thought to be too heedful of
the morrow. But Wolfkettle brake out into speech and rhyme, and said:
"O warriors, the Wolfing kindred shall live or it shall die;
And alive it shall be as the oak-tree when the summer storm goes by;
But dead it shall be as its bole, that they hew for the corner-post
Of some fair and mighty folk-hall, and the roof of a war-fain host."
So therewith they rode their ways past the abode of the Daylings.
Straight to the wood went all the host, and so into it by a wide way
cleft through the thicket, and in some thirty minutes they came thereby
into a great wood-lawn cleared amidst of it by the work of men's hands.
There already was much of the host gathered, sitting or standing in a
great ring round about a space bare of men, where amidmost rose a great
mound raised by men's hands and wrought into steps to be the
sitting-places of the chosen elders and chief men of the kindred; and
atop the mound was flat and smooth save for a turf bench or seat that
went athwart it whereon ten men might sit.
All the wains save the banner-wains had been left behind at the Dayling
abode, nor was any beast there save the holy beasts who drew the banner-
wains and twenty white horses, that stood wreathed about with flowers
within the ring of warriors, and these were for the burnt offering to be
given to the Gods for a happy day of battle. Even the war-horses of the
host they must leave in the wood without the wood-lawn, and all men were
afoot who were there.
For this was the Thing-stead of the Upper-mark, and the holiest place of
the Markmen, and no beast, either neat, sheep, or horse might pasture
there, but was straightway slain and burned if he wandered there; nor
might any man eat therein save at the holy feasts when offerings were
made to the Gods.
So the Wolfings took their place there in the ring of men with the
Elkings on their right hand and the Beamings on their left. And in the
midst of the Wolfing array stood Thiodolf clad in the dwarf-wrought
hauberk: but his head was bare; for he had sworn over the Cup of Renown
that he would fight unhelmed throughout all that trouble, and would bear
no shield in any battle thereof however fierce the onset might be.
Short, and curling close to his head was his black hair, a little
grizzled, so that it looked like rings of hard dark iron: his forehead
was high and smooth, his lips full and red, his eyes steady and
wide-open, and all his face joyous with the thought of the fame of his
deeds, and the coming battle with a foeman whom the Markmen knew not yet.
He was tall and wide-shouldered, but so exceeding well fashioned of all
his limbs and body that he looked no huge man. He was a man well beloved
of women, and children would mostly run to him gladly and play with him.
A most fell warrior was he, whose deeds no man of the Mark could equal,
but blithe of speech even when he was sorrowful of mood, a man that knew
not bitterness of heart: and for all his exceeding might and valiancy, he
was proud and high to no man; so that the very thralls loved him.
He was not abounding in words in the field; nor did he use much the
custom of those days in reviling and defying with words the foe that was
to be smitten with swords.
There were those who had seen him in the field for the first time who
deemed him slack at the work: for he would not always press on with the
foremost, but would hold him a little aback, and while the battle was
young he forbore to smite, and would do nothing but help a kinsman who
was hard pressed, or succour the wounded. So that if men were dealing
with no very hard matter, and their hearts were high and overweening, he
would come home at whiles with unbloodied blade. But no man blamed him
save those who knew him not: for his intent was that the younger men
should win themselves fame, and so raise their courage, and become high-
hearted and stout.
But when the stour was hard, and the battle was broken, and the hearts of
men began to fail them, and doubt fell upon the Markmen, then was he
another man to see: wise, but swift and dangerous, rushing on as if shot
out by some mighty engine: heedful of all, on either side and in front;
running hither and thither as the fight failed and the fire of battle
faltered; his sword so swift and deadly that it was as if he wielded the
very lightening of the heavens: for with the sword it was ever his wont
to fight.
But it must be said that when the foemen turned their backs, and the
chase began, then Thiodolf would nowise withhold his might as in the
early battle, but ever led the chase, and smote on the right hand and on
the left, sparing none, and crying out to the men of the kindred not to
weary in their work, but to fulfil all the hours of their day.
For thuswise would he say and this was a word of his:
"Let us rest to-morrow, fellows, since to-day we have fought amain!
Let not these men we have smitten come aback on our hands again,
And say 'Ye Wolfing warriors, ye have done your work but ill,
Fall to now and do it again, like the craftsman who learneth his
skill.'"
Such then was Thiodolf, and ever was he the chosen leader of the Wolfings
and often the War-duke of the whole Folk.
By his side stood the other chosen leader, whose name was Heriulf; a man
well stricken in years, but very mighty and valiant; wise in war and well
renowned; of few words save in battle, and therein a singer of songs, a
laugher, a joyous man, a merry companion. He was a much bigger man than
Thiodolf; and indeed so huge was his stature, that he seemed to be of the
kindred of the Mountain Giants; and his bodily might went with his
stature, so that no one man might deal with him body to body. His face
was big; his cheek-bones high; his nose like an eagle's neb, his mouth
wide, his chin square and big; his eyes light-grey and fierce under
shaggy eyebrows: his hair white and long.
Such were his raiment and weapons, that he wore a coat of fence of dark
iron scales sewn on to horse-hide, and a dark iron helm fashioned above
his brow into the similitude of the Wolf's head with gaping jaws; and
this he had wrought for himself with his own hands, for he was a good
smith. A round buckler he bore and a huge twibill, which no man of the
kindred could well wield save himself; and it was done both blade and
shaft with knots and runes in gold; and he loved that twibill well, and
called it the Wolf's Sister.
There then stood Heriulf, looking no less than one of the forefathers of
the kindred come back again to the battle of the Wolfings.
He was well-beloved for his wondrous might, and he was no hard man,
though so fell a warrior, and though of few words, as aforesaid, was a
blithe companion to old and young. In numberless battles had he fought,
and men deemed it a wonder that Odin had not taken to him a man so much
after his own heart; and they said it was neighbourly done of the Father
of the Slain to forbear his company so long, and showed how well he loved
the Wolfing House.
For a good while yet came other bands of Markmen into the Thing-stead;
but at last there was an end of their coming. Then the ring of men
opened, and ten warriors of the Daylings made their way through it, and
one of them, the oldest, bore in his hand the War-horn of the Daylings;
for this kindred had charge of the Thing-stead, and of all appertaining
to it. So while his nine fellows stood round about the Speech-Hill, the
old warrior clomb up to the topmost of it, and blew a blast on the horn.
Thereon they who were sitting rose up, and they who were talking each to
each held their peace, and the whole ring drew nigher to the hill, so
that there was a clear space behind them 'twixt them and the wood, and a
space before them between them and the hill, wherein were those nine
warriors, and the horses for the burnt-offering, and the altar of the
Gods; and now were all well within ear-shot of a man speaking amidst the
silence in a clear voice.
But there were gathered of the Markmen to that place some four thousand
men, all chosen warriors and doughty men; and of the thralls and aliens
dwelling with them they were leading two thousand. But not all of the
freemen of the Upper-mark could be at the Thing; for needs must there be
some guard to the passes of the wood toward the south and the hills of
the herdsmen, whereas it was no wise impassable to a wisely led host: so
five hundred men, what of freemen, what of thralls, abode there to guard
the wild-wood; and these looked to have some helping from the hill-men.
Now came an ancient warrior into the space between the men and the wild-
wood holding in his hand a kindled torch; and first he faced due south by
the sun, then, turning, he slowly paced the whole circle going from east
to west, and so on till he had reached the place he started from: then he
dashed the torch to the ground and quenched the fire, and so went his
ways to his own company again.
Then the old Dayling warrior on the mound-top drew his sword, and waved
it flashing in the sun toward the four quarters of the heavens; and
thereafter blew again a blast on the War-horn. Then fell utter silence
on the whole assembly, and the wood was still around them, save here and
there the stamping of a war-horse or the sound of his tugging at the
woodland grass; for there was little resort of birds to the depths of the
thicket, and the summer morning was windless.
CHAPTER VIII--THE FOLK-MOTE OF THE MARKMEN
So the Dayling warrior lifted up his voice and said:
"O kindreds of the Markmen, hearken the words I say;
For no chancehap assembly is gathered here to-day.
The fire hath gone around us in the hands of our very kin,
And twice the horn hath sounded, and the Thing is hallowed in.
Will ye hear or forbear to hearken the tale there is to tell?
There are many mouths to tell it, and a many know it well.
And the tale is this, that the foemen against our kindreds fare
Who eat the meadows desert, and burn the desert bare."
Then sat he down on the turf seat; but there arose a murmur in the
assembly as of men eager to hearken; and without more ado came a man out
of a company of the Upper-mark, and clomb up to the top of the Speech-
Hill, and spoke in a loud voice:
"I am Bork, a man of the Geirings of the Upper-mark: two days ago I and
five others were in the wild-wood a-hunting, and we wended through the
thicket, and came into the land of the hill-folk; and after we had gone a
while we came to a long dale with a brook running through it, and yew-
trees scattered about it and a hazel copse at one end; and by the copse
was a band of men who had women and children with them, and a few neat,
and fewer horses; but sheep were feeding up and down the dale; and they
had made them booths of turf and boughs, and were making ready their
cooking fires, for it was evening. So when they saw us, they ran to
their arms, but we cried out to them in the tongue of the Goths and bade
them peace. Then they came up the bent to us and spake to us in the
Gothic tongue, albeit a little diversely from us; and when we had told
them what and whence we were, they were glad of us, and bade us to them,
and we went, and they entreated us kindly, and made us such cheer as they
might, and gave us mutton to eat, and we gave them venison of the wild-
wood which we had taken, and we abode with them there that night.
"But they told us that they were a house of the folk of the herdsmen, and
that there was war in the land, and that the people thereof were fleeing
before the cruelty of a host of warriors, men of a mighty folk, such as
the earth hath not heard of, who dwell in great cities far to the south;
and how that this host had crossed the mountains, and the Great Water
that runneth from them, and had fallen upon their kindred, and overcome
their fighting-men, and burned their dwellings, slain their elders, and
driven their neat and their sheep, yea, and their women and children in
no better wise than their neat and sheep.
"And they said that they had fled away thus far from their old
habitations, which were a long way to the south, and were now at point to
build them dwellings there in that Dale of the Hazels, and to trust to it
that these Welshmen, whom they called Romans, would not follow so far,
and that if they did, they might betake them to the wild-wood, and let
the thicket cover them, they being so nigh to it.
"Thus they told us; wherefore we sent back one of our fellowship, Birsti
of the Geirings, to tell the tale; and one of the herdsmen folk went with
him, but we ourselves went onward to hear more of these Romans; for the
folk when we asked them, said that they had been in battle against them,
but had fled away for fear of their rumour only. Therefore we went on,
and a young man of this kindred, who named themselves the Hrutings of the
Fell-folk, went along with us. But the others were sore afeard, for all
they had weapons.
"So as we went up the land we found they had told us the very sooth, and
we met divers Houses, and bands, and broken men, who were fleeing from
this trouble, and many of them poor and in misery, having lost their
flocks and herds as well as their roofs; and this last be but little loss
to them, as their dwellings are but poor, and for the most part they have
no tillage. Now of these men, we met not a few who had been in battle
with the Roman host, and much they told us of their might not to be dealt
with, and their mishandling of those whom they took, both men and women;
and at the last we heard true tidings how they had raised them a garth,
and made a stronghold in the midst of the land, as men who meant abiding
there, so that neither might the winter drive them aback, and that they
might be succoured by their people on the other side of the Great River;
to which end they have made other garths, though not so great, on the
road to that water, and all these well and wisely warded by tried men.
For as to the Folks on the other side of the Water, all these lie under
their hand already, what by fraud what by force, and their warriors go
with them to the battle and help them; of whom we met bands now and
again, and fought with them, and took men of them, who told us all this
and much more, over long to tell of here."
He paused and turned about to look on the mighty assembly, and his ears
drank in the long murmur that followed his speaking, and when it had died
out he spake again, but in rhyme:
"Lo thus much of my tidings! But this too it behoveth to tell,
That these masterful men of the cities of the Markmen know full well:
And they wot of the well-grassed meadows, and the acres of the Mark,
And our life amidst of the wild-wood like a candle in the dark;
And they know of our young men's valour and our women's loveliness,
And our tree would they spoil with destruction if its fruit they may
never possess.
For their lust is without a limit, and nought may satiate
Their ravening maw; and their hunger if ye check it turneth to hate,
And the blood-fever burns in their bosoms, and torment and anguish and
woe
O'er the wide field ploughed by the sword-blade for the coming years
they sow;
And ruth is a thing forgotten and all hopes they trample down;
And whatso thing is steadfast, whatso of good renown,
Whatso is fair and lovely, whatso is ancient sooth
In the bloody marl shall they mingle as they laugh for lack of ruth.
Lo the curse of the world cometh hither; for the men that we took in
the land
Said thus, that their host is gathering with many an ordered band
To fall on the wild-wood passes and flood the lovely Mark,
As the river over the meadows upriseth in the dark.
Look to it, O ye kindred! availeth now no word
But the voice of the clashing of iron, and the sword-blade on the
sword."
Therewith he made an end, and deeper and longer was the murmur of the
host of freemen, amidst which Bork gat him down from the Speech-Hill, his
weapons clattering about him, and mingled with the men of his kindred.
Then came forth a man of the kin of the Shieldings of the Upper-mark, and
clomb the mound; and he spake in rhyme from beginning to end; for he was
a minstrel of renown:
"Lo I am a man of the Shieldings and Geirmund is my name;
A half-moon back from the wild-wood out into the hills I came,
And I went alone in my war-gear; for we have affinity
With the Hundings of the Fell-folk, and with them I fain would be;
For I loved a maid of their kindred. Now their dwelling was not far
From the outermost bounds of the Fell-folk, and bold in the battle
they are,
And have met a many people, and held their own abode.
Gay then was the heart within me, as over the hills I rode
And thought of the mirth of to-morrow and the sweet-mouthed Hunding
maid
And their old men wise and merry and their young men unafraid,
And the hall-glee of the Hundings and the healths o'er the guesting
cup.
But as I rode the valley, I saw a smoke go up
O'er the crest of the last of the grass-hills 'twixt me and the
Hunding roof,
And that smoke was black and heavy: so a while I bided aloof,
And drew my girths the tighter, and looked to the arms I bore
And handled my spear for the casting; for my heart misgave me sore,
For nought was that pillar of smoke like the guest-fain cooking-fire.
I lingered in thought for a minute, then turned me to ride up higher,
And as a man most wary up over the bent I rode,
And nigh hid peered o'er the hill-crest adown on the Hunding abode;
And forsooth 'twas the fire wavering all o'er the roof of old,
And all in the garth and about it lay the bodies of the bold;
And bound to a rope amidmost were the women fair and young,
And youths and little children, like the fish on a withy strung
As they lie on the grass for the angler before the beginning of night.
Then the rush of the wrath within me for a while nigh blinded my
sight;
Yet about the cowering war-thralls, short dark-faced men I saw,
Men clad in iron armour, this way and that way draw,
As warriors after the battle are ever wont to do.
Then I knew them for the foemen and their deeds to be I knew,
And I gathered the reins together to ride down the hill amain,
To die with a good stroke stricken and slay ere I was slain.
When lo, on the bent before me rose the head of a brown-faced man,
Well helmed and iron-shielded, who some Welsh speech began
And a short sword brandished against me; then my sight cleared and I
saw
Five others armed in likewise up hill and toward me draw,
And I shook the spear and sped it and clattering on his shield
He fell and rolled o'er smitten toward the garth and the Fell-folk's
field.
"But my heart changed with his falling and the speeding of my stroke,
And I turned my horse; for within me the love of life awoke,
And I spurred, nor heeded the hill-side, but o'er rough and smooth I
rode
Till I heard no chase behind me; then I drew rein and abode.
And down in a dell was I gotten with a thorn-brake in its throat,
And heard but the plover's whistle and the blackbird's broken note
'Mid the thorns; when lo! from a thorn-twig away the blackbird swept,
And out from the brake and towards me a naked man there crept,
And straight I rode up towards him, and knew his face for one
I had seen in the hall of the Hundings ere its happy days were done.
I asked him his tale, but he bade me forthright to bear him away;
So I took him up behind me, and we rode till late in the day,
Toward the cover of the wild-wood, and as swiftly as we might.
But when yet aloof was the thicket and it now was moonless night,
We stayed perforce for a little, and he told me all the tale:
How the aliens came against them, and they fought without avail
Till the Roof o'er their heads was burning and they burst forth on the
foe,
And were hewn down there together; nor yet was the slaughter slow.
But some they saved for thralldom, yea, e'en of the fighting men,
Or to quell them with pains; so they stripped them; and this man
espying just then
Some chance, I mind not whatwise, from the garth fled out and away.
"Now many a thing noteworthy of these aliens did he say,
But this I bid you hearken, lest I wear the time for nought,
That still upon the Markmen and the Mark they set their thought;
For they questioned this man and others through a go-between in words
Of us, and our lands and our chattels, and the number of our swords;
Of the way and the wild-wood passes and the winter and his ways.
Now look to see them shortly; for worn are fifteen days
Since in the garth of the Hundings I saw them dight for war,
And a hardy folk and ready and a swift-foot host they are."
Therewith Geirmund went down clattering from the Hill and stood with his
company. But a man came forth from the other side of the ring, and clomb
the Hill: he was a red-haired man, rather big, clad in a skin coat, and
bearing a bow in his hand and a quiver of arrows at his back, and a
little axe hung by his side. He said:
"I dwell in the House of the Hrossings of the Mid-mark, and I am now made
a man of the kindred: howbeit I was not born into it; for I am the son of
a fair and mighty woman of a folk of the Kymry, who was taken in war
while she went big with me; I am called Fox the Red.
"These Romans have I seen, and have not died: so hearken! for my tale
shall be short for what there is in it.
"I am, as many know, a hunter of Mirkwood, and I know all its ways and
the passes through the thicket somewhat better than most.
"A moon ago I fared afoot from Mid-mark through Upper-mark into the
thicket of the south, and through it into the heath country; and I went
over a neck and came in the early dawn into a little dale when somewhat
of mist still hung over it. At the dale's end I saw a man lying asleep
on the grass under a quicken tree, and his shield and sword hanging over
his head to a bough thereof, and his horse feeding hoppled higher up the
dale.
"I crept up softly to him with a shaft nocked on the string, but when I
drew near I saw him to be of the sons of the Goths. So I doubted
nothing, but laid down my bow, and stood upright, and went to him and
roused him, and he leapt up, and was wroth.
"I said to him, 'Wilt thou be wroth with a brother of the kindred meeting
him in unpeopled parts?'
"But he reached out for his weapons; but ere he could handle them I ran
in on him so that he gat not his sword, and had scant time to smite at me
with a knife which he drew from his waist.
"I gave way before him for he was a very big man, and he rushed past me,
and I dealt him a blow on the side of the head with my little axe which
is called the War-babe, and gave him a great wound: and he fell on the
grass, and as it happened that was his bane.
"I was sorry that I had slain him, since he was a man of the Goths:
albeit otherwise he had slain me, for he was very wroth and dazed with
slumber.
"He died not for a while; and he bade me fetch him water; and there was a
well hard by on the other side of the tree; so I fetched it him in a
great shell that I carry, and he drank. I would have sung the
blood-staunching song over him, for I know it well. But he said, 'It
availeth nought: I have enough: what man art thou?'
"I said, 'I am a fosterling of the Hrossings, and my mother was taken in
war: my name is Fox.'
"Said he; 'O Fox, I have my due at thy hands, for I am a Markman of the
Elkings, but a guest of the Burgundians beyond the Great River; and the
Romans are their masters and they do their bidding: even so did I who was
but their guest: and I a Markman to fight against the Markmen, and all
for fear and for gold! And thou an alien-born hast slain their traitor
and their dastard! This is my due. Give me to drink again.'
"So did I; and he said; 'Wilt thou do an errand for me to thine own
house?' 'Yea,' said I.
"Said he, 'I am a messenger to the garth of the Romans, that I may tell
the road to the Mark, and lead them through the thicket; and other guides
are coming after me: but not yet for three days or four. So till they
come there will be no man in the Roman garth to know thee that thou art
not even I myself. If thou art doughty, strip me when I am dead and do
my raiment on thee, and take this ring from my neck, for that is my
token, and when they ask thee for a word say, "_No limit_"; for that is
the token-word. Go south-east over the dales keeping Broadshield-fell
square with thy right hand, and let thy wisdom, O Fox, lead thee to the
Garth of the Romans, and so back to thy kindred with all tidings thou
hast gathered--for indeed they come--a many of them. Give me to drink.'
"So he drank again, and said, 'The bearer of this token is called
Hrosstyr of the River Goths. He hath that name among dastards. Thou
shalt lay a turf upon my head. Let my death pay for my life.'
"Therewith he fell back and died. So I did as he bade me and took his
gear, worth six kine, and did it on me; I laid turf upon him in that
dale, and hid my bow and my gear in a blackthorn brake hard by, and then
took his horse and rode away.
"Day and night I rode till I came to the garth of the Romans; there I
gave myself up to their watchers, and they brought me to their Duke, a
grim man and hard. He said in a terrible voice, 'Thy name?' I said,
'Hrosstyr of the River Goths.' He said, 'What limit?' I answered, '_No
limit_.' 'The token!' said he, and held out his hand. I gave him the
ring. 'Thou art the man,' said he.
"I thought in my heart, 'thou liest, lord,' and my heart danced for joy.
"Then he fell to asking me questions a many, and I answered every one
glibly enough, and told him what I would, but no word of truth save for
his hurt, and my soul laughed within me at my lies; thought I, the
others, the traitors, shall come, and they shall tell him the truth, and
he will not trow it, or at the worst he will doubt them. But me he
doubted nothing, else had he called in the tormentors to have the truth
of me by pains; as I well saw afterwards, when they questioned with
torments a man and a woman of the hill-folk whom they had brought in
captive.
"I went from him and went all about that garth espying everything,
fearing nothing; albeit there were divers woful captives of the Goths,
who cursed me for a dastard, when they saw by my attire that I was of
their blood.
"I abode there three days, and learned all that I might of the garth and
the host of them, and the fourth day in the morning I went out as if to
hunt, and none hindered me, for they doubted me not.
"So I came my ways home to the Upper-mark, and was guested with the
Geirings. Will ye that I tell you somewhat of the ways of these Romans
of the garth? The time presses, and my tale runneth longer than I would.
What will ye?"
Then there arose a murmur, "Tell all, tell all." "Nay," said the Fox,
"All I may not tell; so much did I behold there during the three days'
stay; but this much it behoveth you to know: that these men have no other
thought save to win the Mark and waste it, and slay the fighting men and
the old carles, and enthrall such as they will, that is, all that be fair
and young, and they long sorely for our women either to have or to sell.
"As for their garth, it is strongly walled about with a dyke newly dug;
on the top thereof are they building a wall made of clay, and burned like
pots into ashlar stones hard and red, and these are laid in lime.
"It is now the toil of the thralls of our blood whom they have taken,
both men and women, to dig that clay and to work it, and bear it to
kilns, and to have for reward scant meat and many stripes. For it is a
grim folk, that laugheth to see others weep.
"Their men-at-arms are well dight and for the most part in one way: they
are helmed with iron, and have iron on their breasts and reins, and bear
long shields that cover them to the knees. They are girt with a sax and
have a heavy casting-spear. They are dark-skinned and ugly of aspect,
surly and of few words: they drink little, and eat not much.
"They have captains of tens and of hundreds over them, and that war-duke
over all; he goeth to and fro with gold on his head and his breast, and
commonly hath a cloak cast over him of the colour of the crane's-bill
blossom.
"They have an altar in the midst of their burg, and thereon they
sacrifice to their God, who is none other than their banner of war, which
is an image of the ravening eagle with outspread wings; but yet another
God they have, and look you! it is a wolf, as if they were of the kin of
our brethren; a she-wolf and two man-children at her dugs; wonderful is
this.
"I tell you that they are grim; and know it by this token: those captains
of tens, and of hundreds, spare not to smite the warriors with staves
even before all men, when all goeth not as they would; and yet, though
they be free men, and mighty warriors, they endure it and smite not in
turn. They are a most evil folk.
"As to their numbers, they of the burg are hard on three thousand footmen
of the best; and of horsemen five hundred, nowise good; and of bowmen and
slingers six hundred or more: their bows weak; their slingers cunning
beyond measure. And the talk is that when they come upon us they shall
have with them some five hundred warriors of the Over River Goths, and
others of their own folk."
Then he said:
"O men of the Mark, will ye meet them in the meadows and the field,
Or will ye flee before them and have the wood for a shield?
Or will ye wend to their war-burg with weapons cast away,
With your women and your children, a peace of them to pray?
So doing, not all shall perish; but most shall long to die
Ere in the garths of the Southland two moons have loitered by."
Then rose the rumour loud and angry mingled with the rattle of swords and
the clash of spears on shields; but Fox said:
"Needs must ye follow one of these three ways. Nay, what say I? there
are but two ways and not three; for if ye flee they shall follow you to
the confines of the earth. Either these Welsh shall take all, and our
lives to boot, or we shall hold to all that is ours, and live merrily.
The sword doometh; and in three days it may be the courts shall be
hallowed: small is the space between us."
Therewith he also got him down from the Hill, and joined his own house:
and men said that he had spoken well and wisely. But there arose a noise
of men talking together on these tidings; and amidst it an old warrior of
the Nether-mark strode forth and up to the Hill-top. Gaunt and stark he
was to look on; and all men knew him and he was well-beloved, so all held
their peace as he said:
"I am Otter of the Laxings: now needeth but few words till the War-duke
is chosen, and we get ready to wend our ways in arms. Here have ye heard
three good men and true tell of our foes, and this last, Fox the Red,
hath seen them and hath more to tell when we are on the way; nor is the
way hard to find. It were scarce well to fall upon these men in their
garth and war-burg; for hard is a wall to slay. Better it were to meet
them in the Wild-wood, which may well be a friend to us and a wall, but
to them a net. O Agni of the Daylings, thou warder of the Thing-stead,
bid men choose a War-duke if none gainsay it."
And without more words he clattered down the Hill, and went and stood
with the Laxing band. But the old Dayling arose and blew the horn, and
there was at once a great silence, amidst which he said:
"Children of Slains-father, doth the Folk go to the war?"
There was no voice but shouted "yea," and the white swords sprang aloft,
and the westering sun swept along a half of them as they tossed to and
fro, and the others showed dead-white and fireless against the dark wood.
Then again spake Agni:
"Will ye choose the War-duke now and once, or shall it be in a while,
after others have spoken?"
And the voice of the Folk went up, "Choose! Choose!"
Said Agni: "Sayeth any aught against it?" But no voice of a gainsayer
was heard, and Agni said:
"Children of Tyr, what man will ye have for a leader and a duke of war?"
Then a great shout sprang up from amidst the swords: "We will have
Thiodolf; Thiodolf the Wolfing!"
Said Agni: "I hear no other name; are ye of one mind? hath any aught to
say against it? If that be so, let him speak now, and not forbear to
follow in the wheatfield of the spears. Speak, ye that will not follow
Thiodolf!"
No voice gainsaid him: then said the Dayling: "Come forth thou War-duke
of the Markmen! take up the gold ring from the horns of the altar, set it
on thine arm and come up hither!"
Then came forth Thiodolf into the sun, and took up the gold ring from
where it lay, and did it on his arm. And this was the ring of the leader
of the folk whenso one should be chosen: it was ancient and daintily
wrought, but not very heavy: so ancient it was that men said it had been
wrought by the dwarfs.
So Thiodolf went up on to the hill, and all men cried out on him for joy,
for they knew his wisdom in war. Many wondered to see him unhelmed, but
they had a deeming that he must have made oath to the Gods thereof and
their hearts were glad of it. They took note of the dwarf-wrought
hauberk, and even from a good way off they could see what a treasure of
smith's work it was, and they deemed it like enough that spells had been
sung over it to make it sure against point and edge: for they knew that
Thiodolf was well beloved of the Gods.
But when Thiodolf was on the Hill of Speech, he said:
"Men of the kindreds, I am your War-duke to-day; but it is oftenest the
custom when ye go to war to choose you two dukes, and I would it were so
now. No child's play is the work that lies before us; and if one leader
chance to fall let there be another to take his place without stop or
stay. Thou Agni of the Daylings, bid the Folk choose them another duke
if so they will."
Said Agni: "Good is this which our War-duke hath spoken; say then, men of
the Mark, who shall stand with Thiodolf to lead you against the aliens?"
Then was there a noise and a crying of names, and more than two names
seemed to be cried out; but by far the greater part named either Otter of
the Laxings, or Heriulf of the Wolfings. True it is that Otter was a
very wise warrior, and well known to all the men of the Mark; yet so dear
was Heriulf to them, that none would have named Otter had it not been
mostly their custom not to choose both War-dukes from one House.
Now spake Agni: "Children of Tyr, I hear you name more than one name: now
let each man cry out clearly the name he nameth."
So the Folk cried the names once more, but this time it was clear that
none was named save Otter and Heriulf; so the Dayling was at point to
speak again, but or ever a word left his lips, Heriulf the mighty, the
ancient of days, stood forth: and when men saw that he would take up the
word there was a great silence. So he spake:
"Hearken, children! I am old and war-wise; but my wisdom is the wisdom
of the sword of the mighty warrior, that knoweth which way it should
wend, and hath no thought of turning back till it lieth broken in the
field. Such wisdom is good against Folks that we have met heretofore; as
when we have fought with the Huns, who would sweep us away from the face
of the earth, or with the Franks or the Burgundians, who would quell us
into being something worser than they be. But here is a new foe, and new
wisdom, and that right shifty, do we need to meet them. One wise duke
have ye gotten, Thiodolf to wit; and he is young beside me and beside
Otter of the Laxings. And now if ye must needs have an older man to
stand beside him, (and that is not ill) take ye Otter; for old though his
body be, the thought within him is keen and supple like the best of Welsh-
wrought blades, and it liveth in the days that now are: whereas for me,
meseemeth, my thoughts are in the days bygone. Yet look to it, that I
shall not fail to lead as the sword of the valiant leadeth, or the shaft
shot by the cunning archer. Choose ye Otter; I have spoken over long."
Then spoke Agni the Dayling, and laughed withal: "One man of the Folk
hath spoken for Otter and against Heriulf--now let others speak if they
will!"
So the cry came forth, "Otter let it be, we will have Otter!"
"Speaketh any against Otter?" said Agni. But there was no voice raised
against him.
Then Agni said: "Come forth, Otter of the Laxings, and hold the ring with
Thiodolf."
Then Otter went up on to the hill and stood by Thiodolf, and they held
the ring together; and then each thrust his hand and arm through the ring
and clasped hands together, and stood thus awhile, and all the Folk
shouted together.
Then spake Agni: "Now shall we hew the horses and give the gifts to the
Gods."
Therewith he and the two War-dukes came down from the hill; and stood
before the altar; and the nine warriors of the Daylings stood forth with
axes to hew the horses and with copper bowls wherein to catch the blood
of them, and each hewed down his horse to the Gods, but the two War-dukes
slew the tenth and fairest: and the blood was caught in the bowls, and
Agni took a sprinkler and went round about the ring of men, and cast the
blood of the Gods'-gifts over the Folk, as was the custom of those days.
Then they cut up the carcases and burned on the altar the share of the
Gods, and Agni and the War-dukes tasted thereof, and the rest they bore
off to the Daylings' abode for the feast to be holden that night.
Then Otter and Thiodolf spake apart together for awhile, and presently
went up again on to the Speech-Hill, and Thiodolf said:
"O kindreds of the Markmen; to-morrow with the day
We shall wend up Mirkwood-water to bar our foes the way;
And there shall we make our wain-burg on the edges of the wood,
Where in the days past over at last the aliens stood,
The Slaughter Tofts ye call it. There tidings shall we get
If the curse of the world is awakened, and the serpent crawleth yet
Amidst the Mirkwood thicket; and when the sooth we know,
Then bearing battle with us through the thicket shall we go,
The ancient Wood-wolf's children, and the People of the Shield,
And the Spear-kin and the Horse-kin, while the others keep the field
About the warded wain-burg; for not many need we there
Where amidst of the thickets' tangle and the woodland net they fare,
And the hearts of the aliens falter and they curse the fight ne'er
done,
And wonder who is fighting and which way is the sun."
Thus he spoke; then Agni took up the war-horn again, and blew a blast,
and then he cried out:
"Now sunder we the Folk-mote! and the feast is for to-night,
And to-morrow the Wayfaring; But unnamed is the day of the fight;
O warriors, look ye to it that not long we need abide
'Twixt the hour of the word we have spoken, and our fair-fame's
blooming tide!
For then 'midst the toil and the turmoil shall we sow the seeds of
peace,
And the Kindreds' long endurance, and the Goth-folk's great increase."
Then arose the last great shout, and soberly and in due order, kindred by
kindred, they turned and departed from the Thing-stead and went their way
through the wood to the abode of the Daylings.
CHAPTER IX--THE ANCIENT MAN OF THE DAYLINGS
There still hung the more part of the stay-at-homes round about the Roof.
But on the plain beneath the tofts were all the wains of the host drawn
up round about a square like the streets about a market-place; all these
now had their tilts rigged over them, some white, some black, some red,
some tawny of hue; and some, which were of the Beamings, green like the
leafy tree.
The warriors of the host went down into this wain-town, which they had
not fenced in any way, since they in no wise looked for any onset there;
and there were their thralls dighting the feast for them, and a many of
the Dayling kindred, both men and women, went with them; but some men did
the Daylings bring into their Roof, for there was room for a good many
besides their own folk. So they went over the Bridge of turf into the
garth and into the Great Roof of the Daylings; and amongst these were the
two War-dukes.
So when they came to the dais it was as fair all round about there as
might well be; and there sat elders and ancient warriors to welcome the
guests; and among them was the old carle who had sat on the edge of the
burg to watch the faring of the host, and had shuddered back at the sight
of the Wolfing Banner.
And when the old carle saw the guests, he fixed his eyes on Thiodolf, and
presently came up and stood before him; and Thiodolf looked on the old
man, and greeted him kindly and smiled on him; but the carle spake not
till he had looked on him a while; and at last he fell a-trembling, and
reached his hands out to Thiodolf's bare head, and handled his curls and
caressed them, as a mother does with her son, even if he be a grizzled-
haired man, when there is none by: and at last he said:
"How dear is the head of the mighty, and the apple of the tree
That blooms with the life of the people which is and yet shall be!
It is helmed with ancient wisdom, and the long remembered thought,
That liveth when dead is the iron, and its very rust but nought.
Ah! were I but young as aforetime, I would fare to the battle-stead
And stand amidst of the spear-hail for the praise of the hand and the
head!"
Then his hands left Thiodolf's head, and strayed down to his shoulders
and his breast, and he felt the cold rings of the hauberk, and let his
hands fall down to his side again; and the tears gushed out of his old
eyes and again he spake:
"O house of the heart of the mighty, O breast of the battle-lord
Why art thou coldly hidden from the flickering flame of the sword?
I know thee not, nor see thee; thou art as the fells afar
Where the Fathers have their dwelling, and the halls of Godhome are:
The wind blows wild betwixt us, and the cloud-rack flies along,
And high aloft enfoldeth the dwelling of the strong;
They are, as of old they have been, but their hearths flame not for
me;
And the kindness of their feast-halls mine eyes shall never see."
Thiodolf's lips still smiled on the old man, but a shadow had come over
his eyes and his brow; and the chief of the Daylings and their mighty
guests stood by listening intently with the knit brows of anxious men;
nor did any speak till the ancient man again betook him to words:
"I came to the house of the foeman when hunger made me a fool;
And the foeman said, 'Thou art weary, lo, set thy foot on the stool;'
And I stretched out my feet,--and was shackled: and he spake with a
dastard's smile,
'O guest, thine hands are heavy; now rest them for a while!'
So I stretched out my hands, and the hand-gyves lay cold on either
wrist:
And the wood of the wolf had been better than that feast-hall, had I
wist
That this was the ancient pit-fall, and the long expected trap,
And that now for my heart's desire I had sold the world's goodhap."
Therewith the ancient man turned slowly away from Thiodolf, and departed
sadly to his own place. Thiodolf changed countenance but little, albeit
those about him looked strangely on him, as though if they durst they
would ask him what these words might be, and if he from his hidden
knowledge might fit a meaning to them. For to many there was a word of
warning in them, and to some an evil omen of the days soon to be; and
scarce anyone heard those words but he had a misgiving in his heart, for
the ancient man was known to be foreseeing, and wild and strange his
words seemed to them.
But Agni would make light of it, and he said: "Asmund the Old is of good
will, and wise he is; but he hath great longings for the deeds of men,
when he hath tidings of battle; for a great warrior and a red-hand hewer
he hath been in times past; he loves the Kindred, and deems it ill if he
may not fare afield with them; for the thought of dying in the straw is
hateful to him."
"Yea," said another, "and moreover he hath seen sons whom he loved slain
in battle; and when he seeth a warrior in his prime he becometh dear to
him, and he feareth for him."
"Yet," said a third, "Asmund is foreseeing; and may be, Thiodolf, thou
wilt wot of the drift of these words, and tell us thereof."
But Thiodolf spake nought of the matter, though in his heart he pondered
it.
So the guests were led to table, and the feast began, within the hall and
without it, and wide about the plain; and the Dayling maidens went in
bands trimly decked out throughout all the host and served the warriors
with meat and drink, and sang the overword to their lays, and smote the
harp, and drew the bow over the fiddle till it laughed and wailed and
chuckled, and were blithe and merry with all, and great was the glee on
the eve of battle. And if Thiodolf's heart were overcast, his face
showed it not, but he passed from hall to wain-burg and from wain-burg to
hall again blithe and joyous with all men. And thereby he raised the
hearts of men, and they deemed it good that they had gotten such a War-
duke, meet to uphold all hearts of men both at the feast and in the fray.
CHAPTER X--THAT CARLINE COMETH TO THE ROOF OF THE WOLFINGS
Now it was three days after this that the women were gathering to the
Women's-Chamber of the Roof of the Wolfings a little before the afternoon
changes into evening. The hearts of most were somewhat heavy, for the
doubt wherewith they had watched the departure of the fighting-men still
hung about them; nor had they any tidings from the host (nor was it like
that they should have). And as they were somewhat down-hearted, so it
seemed by the aspect of all things that afternoon. It was not yet the
evening, as is aforesaid, but the day was worn and worsened, and all
things looked weary. The sky was a little clouded, but not much; yet was
it murky down in the south-east, and there was a threat of storm in it,
and in the air close round each man's head, and in the very waving of the
leafy boughs. There was by this time little doing in field and fold (for
the kine were milked), and the women were coming up from the acres and
the meadow and over the open ground anigh the Roof; there was the grass
worn and dusty, and the women that trod it, their feet were tanned and
worn, and dusty also; skin-dry and weary they looked, with the sweat
dried upon them; their girt-up gowns grey and lightless, their
half-unbound hair blowing about them in the dry wind, which had in it no
morning freshness, and no evening coolness.
It was a time when toil was well-nigh done, but had left its aching
behind it; a time for folk to sleep and forget for a little while, till
the low sun should make it evening, and make all things fair with his
level rays; no time for anxious thoughts concerning deeds doing, wherein
the anxious ones could do nought to help. Yet such thoughts those stay-
at-homes needs must have in the hour of their toil scarce over, their
rest and mirth not begun.
Slowly one by one the women went in by the Women's-door, and the Hall-Sun
sat on a stone hard by, and watched them as they passed; and she looked
keenly at all persons and all things. She had been working in the acres,
and her hand was yet on the hoe she had been using, and but for her face
her body was as of one resting after toil: her dark blue gown was
ungirded, her dark hair loose and floating, the flowers that had wreathed
it, now faded, lying strewn upon the grass before her: her feet bare for
coolness' sake, her left hand lying loose and open upon her knee.
Yet though her body otherwise looked thus listless, in her face was no
listlessness, nor rest: her eyes were alert and clear, shining like two
stars in the heavens of dawn-tide; her lips were set close, her brow
knit, as of one striving to shape thoughts hard to understand into words
that all might understand.
So she sat noting all things, as woman by woman went past her into the
hall, till at last she slowly rose to her feet; for there came two young
women leading between them that same old carline with whom she had talked
on the Hill-of-Speech. She looked on the carline steadfastly, but gave
no token of knowing her; but the ancient woman spoke when she came near
to the Hall-Sun, and old as her semblance was, yet did her speech sound
sweet to the Hall-Sun, and indeed to all those that heard it and she
said:
"May we be here to-night, O Hall-Sun, thou lovely Seeress of the mighty
Wolfings? may a wandering woman sit amongst you and eat the meat of the
Wolfings?"
Then spake the Hall-Sun in a sweet measured voice: "Surely mother: all
men who bring peace with them are welcome guests to the Wolfings: nor
will any ask thine errand, but we will let thy tidings flow from thee as
thou wilt. This is the custom of the kindred, and no word of mine own; I
speak to thee because thou hast spoken to me, but I have no authority
here, being myself but an alien. Albeit I serve the House of the
Wolfings, and I love it as the hound loveth his master who feedeth him,
and his master's children who play with him. Enter, mother, and be glad
of heart, and put away care from thee."
Then the old woman drew nigher to her and sat down in the dust at her
feet, for she was now sitting down again, and took her hand and kissed it
and fondled it, and seemed loth to leave handling the beauty of the Hall-
Sun; but she looked kindly on the carline, and smiled on her, and leaned
down to her, and kissed her mouth, and said:
"Damsels, take care of this poor woman, and make her good cheer; for she
is wise of wit, and a friend of the Wolfings; and I have seen her before,
and spoken with her; and she loveth us. But as for me I must needs be
alone in the meads for a while; and it may be that when I come to you
again, I shall have a word to tell you."
Now indeed it was in a manner true that the Hall-Sun had no authority in
the Wolfing House; yet was she so well beloved for her wisdom and beauty
and her sweet speech, that all hastened to do her will in small matters
and in great, and now as they looked at her after the old woman had
caressed her, it seemed to them that her fairness grew under their eyes,
and that they had never seen her so fair; and the sight of her seemed so
good to them, that the outworn day and its weariness changed to them, and
it grew as pleasant as the first hours of the sunlight, when men arise
happy from their rest, and look on the day that lieth hopeful before them
with all its deeds to be.
So they grew merry, and they led the carline into the Hall with them, and
set her down in the Women's-Chamber, and washed her feet, and gave her
meat and drink, and bade her rest and think of nothing troublous, and in
all wise made her good cheer; and she was merry with them, and praised
their fairness and their deftness, and asked them many questions about
their weaving and spinning and carding; (howbeit the looms were idle as
then because it was midsummer, and the men gone to the war). And this
they deemed strange, as it seemed to them that all women should know of
such things; but they thought it was a token that she came from far away.
But afterwards she sat among them, and told them pleasant tales of past
times and far countries, and was blithe to them and they to her and the
time wore on toward nightfall in the Women's-Chamber.
CHAPTER XI--THE HALL-SUN SPEAKETH
But for the Hall-Sun; she sat long on that stone by the Women's-door; but
when the evening was now come, she arose and went down through the
cornfields and into the meadow, and wandered away as her feet took her.
Night was falling by then she reached that pool of Mirkwood-water, whose
eddies she knew so well. There she let the water cover her in the deep
stream, and she floated down and sported with the ripples where the river
left that deep to race over the shallows; and the moon was casting
shadows by then she came up the bank again by the shallow end bearing in
her arms a bundle of the blue-flowering mouse-ear. Then she clad herself
at once, and went straight as one with a set purpose toward the Great
Roof, and entered by the Man's-door; and there were few men within and
they but old and heavy with the burden of years and the coming of night-
tide; but they wondered and looked to each other and nodded their heads
as she passed them by, as men who would say, There is something toward.
So she went to her sleeping-place, and did on fresh raiment, and came
forth presently clad in white and shod with gold and having her hair
wreathed about with the herb of wonder, the blue-flowering mouse-ear of
Mirkwood-water. Thus she passed through the Hall, and those elders were
stirred in their hearts when they beheld her beauty. But she opened the
door of the Women's-Chamber, and stood on the threshold; and lo, there
sat the carline amidst a ring of the Wolfing women, and she telling them
tales of old time such as they had not yet heard; and her eyes were
glittering, and the sweet words were flowing from her mouth; but she sat
straight up like a young woman; and at whiles it seemed to those who
hearkened, that she was no old and outworn woman, but fair and strong,
and of much avail. But when she heard the Hall-Sun she turned and saw
her on the threshold, and her speech fell suddenly, and all that might
and briskness faded from her, and she fixed her eyes on the Hall-Sun and
looked wistfully and anxiously on her.
Then spake the Hall-Sun standing in the doorway:
"Hear ye a matter, maidens, and ye Wolfing women all,
And thou alien guest of the Wolfings! But come ye up the hall,
That the ancient men may hearken: for methinks I have a word
Of the battle of the Kindreds, and the harvest of the sword."
Then all arose up with great joy, for they knew that the tidings were
good, when they looked on the face of the Hall-Sun and beheld the pride
of her beauty unmarred by doubt or pain.
She led them forth to the dais, and there were the sick and the elders
gathered and some ancient men of the thralls: so she stepped lightly up
to her place, and stood under her namesake, the wondrous lamp of ancient
days. And thus she spake:
"On my soul there lies no burden, and no tangle of the fight
In plain or dale or wild-wood enmeshes now my sight.
I see the Markmen's wain-burg, and I see their warriors go
As men who wait for battle and the coming of the foe.
And they pass 'twixt the wood and the wain-burg within earshot of the
horn,
But over the windy meadows no sound thereof is borne,
And all is well amongst them. To the burg I draw anigh
And I see all battle-banners in the breeze of morning fly,
But no Wolfings round their banner and no warrior of the Shield,
No Geiring and no Hrossing in the burg or on the field."
She held her peace for a little while, and no one dared to speak; then
she lifted up her head and spake:
"Now I go by the lip of the wild-wood and a sound withal I hear,
As of men in the paths of the thicket, and a many drawing anear.
Then, muffled yet by the tree-boles, I hear the Shielding song,
And warriors blithe and merry with the battle of the strong.
Give back a little, Markmen, make way for men to pass
To your ordered battle-dwelling o'er the trodden meadow-grass,
For alive with men is the wild-wood and shineth with the steel,
And hath a voice most merry to tell of the Kindreds' weal,
'Twixt each tree a warrior standeth come back from the spear-strewn
way,
And forth they come from the wild-wood and a little band are they."
Then again was she silent; but her head sank not, as of one thinking, as
before it did, but she looked straight forward with bright eyes and
smiling, as she said:
"Lo, now the guests they are bringing that ye have not seen before;
Yet guests but ill-entreated; for they lack their shields of war,
No spear in the hand they carry and with no sax are girt.
Lo, these are the dreaded foemen, these once so strong to hurt;
The men that all folk fled from, the swift to drive the spoil,
The men that fashioned nothing but the trap to make men toil.
They drew the sword in the cities, they came and struck the stroke
And smote the shield of the Markmen, and point and edge they broke.
They drew the sword in the war-garth, they swore to bring aback
God's gifts from the Markmen houses where the tables never lack.
O Markmen, take the God-gifts that came on their own feet
O'er the hills through the Mirkwood thicket the Stone of Tyr to meet!"
Again she stayed her song, which had been loud and joyous, and they who
heard her knew that the Kindreds had gained the day, and whilst the Hall-
Sun was silent they fell to talking of this fair day of battle and the
taking of captives. But presently she spread out her hands again and
they held their peace, and she said:
"I see, O Wolfing women, and many a thing I see,
But not all things, O elders, this eve shall ye learn of me,
For another mouth there cometh: the thicket I behold
And the Sons of Tyr amidst it, and I see the oak-trees old,
And the war-shout ringing round them; and I see the battle-lord
Unhelmed amidst of the mighty; and I see his leaping sword;
Strokes struck and warriors falling, and the streaks of spears I see,
But hereof shall the other tell you who speaketh after me.
For none other than the Shieldings from out the wood have come,
And they shift the turn with the Daylings to drive the folk-spear
home,
And to follow with the Wolfings and thrust the war-beast forth.
And so good men deem the tidings that they bid them journey north
On the feet of a Shielding runner, that Gisli hath to name;
And west of the water he wendeth by the way that the Wolfings came;
Now for sleep he tarries never, and no meat is in his mouth
Till the first of the Houses hearkeneth the tidings of the south;
Lo, he speaks, and the mead-sea sippeth, and the bread by the way doth
eat,
And over the Geiring threshold and outward pass his feet;
And he breasts the Burg of the Daylings and saith his happy word,
And stayeth to drink for a minute of the waves of Battleford.
Lone then by the stream he runneth, and wendeth the wild-wood road,
And dasheth through the hazels of the Oselings' fair abode,
And the Elking women know it, and their hearts are glad once more,
And ye--yea, hearken, Wolfings, for his feet are at the door."
CHAPTER XII--TIDINGS OF THE BATTLE IN MIRKWOOD
As the Hall-Sun made an end they heard in good sooth the feet of the
runner on the hard ground without the hall, and presently the door opened
and he came leaping over the threshold, and up to the table, and stood
leaning on it with one hand, his breast heaving with his last swift run.
Then he spake presently:
"I am Gisli of the Shieldings: Otter sendeth me to the Hall-Sun; but on
the way I was to tell tidings to the Houses west of the Water: so have I
done. Now is my journey ended; for Otter saith: 'Let the Hall-Sun note
the tidings and send word of them by four of the lightest limbed of the
women, or by lads a-horseback, both west and east of the Water; let her
send the word as it seemeth to her, whether she hath seen it or not. I
will drink a short draught since my running is over."
Then a damsel brought him a horn of mead and let it come into his hand,
and he drank sighing with pleasure, while the damsel for pleasure of him
and his tidings laid her hand on his shoulder. Then he set down the horn
and spake:
"We, the Shieldings, with the Geirings, the Hrossings, and the Wolfings,
three hundred warriors and more, were led into the Wood by Thiodolf the
War-duke, beside whom went Fox, who hath seen the Romans. We were all
afoot; for there is no wide way through the Wood, nor would we have it
otherwise, lest the foe find the thicket easy. But many of us know the
thicket and its ways; so we made not the easy hard. I was near the War-
duke, for I know the thicket and am light-foot: I am a bowman. I saw
Thiodolf that he was unhelmed and bore no shield, nor had he any coat of
fence; nought but a deer-skin frock."
As he said that word, the carline, who had drawn very near to him and was
looking hard at his face, turned and looked on the Hall-Sun and stared at
her till she reddened under those keen eyes: for in her heart began to
gather some knowledge of the tale of her mother and what her will was.
But Gisli went on: "Yet by his side was his mighty sword, and we all knew
it for Throng-plough, and were glad of it and of him and the unfenced
breast of the dauntless. Six hours we went spreading wide through the
thicket, not always seeing one another, but knowing one another to be
nigh; those that knew the thicket best led, the others followed on. So
we went till it was high noon on the plain and glimmering dusk in the
thicket, and we saw nought, save here and there a roe, and here and there
a sounder of swine, and coneys where it was opener, and the sun shone and
the grass grew for a little space. So came we unto where the thicket
ended suddenly, and there was a long glade of the wild-wood, all set
about with great oak-trees and grass thereunder, which I knew well; and
thereof the tale tells that it was a holy place of the folk who abided in
these parts before the Sons of the Goths. Now will I drink."
So he drank of the horn and said: "It seemeth that Fox had a deeming of
the way the Romans should come; so now we abided in the thicket without
that glade and lay quiet and hidden, spreading ourselves as much about
that lawn of the oak-trees as we might, the while Fox and three others
crept through the wood to espy what might be toward: not long had they
been gone ere we heard a war-horn blow, and it was none of our horns: it
was a long way off, but we looked to our weapons: for men are eager for
the foe and the death that cometh, when they lie hidden in the thicket. A
while passed, and again we heard the horn, and it was nigher and had a
marvellous voice; then in a while was a little noise of men, not their
voices, but footsteps going warily through the brake to the south, and
twelve men came slowly and warily into that oak-lawn, and lo, one of them
was Fox; but he was clad in the raiment of the dastard of the Goths whom
he had slain. I tell you my heart beat, for I saw that the others were
Roman men, and one of them seemed to be a man of authority, and he held
Fox by the shoulder, and pointed to the thicket where we lay, and
something he said to him, as we saw by his gesture and face, but his
voice we heard not, for he spake soft.
"Then of those ten men of his he sent back two, and Fox going between
them, as though he should be slain if he misled them; and he and the
eight abided there wisely and warily, standing silently some six feet
from each other, moving scarce at all, but looking like images fashioned
of brown copper and iron; holding their casting-spears (which be
marvellous heavy weapons) and girt with the sax.
"As they stood there, not out of earshot of a man speaking in his wonted
voice, our War-duke made a sign to those about him, and we spread very
quietly to the right hand and the left of him once more, and we drew as
close as might be to the thicket's edge, and those who had bows the
nighest thereto. Thus then we abided a while again; and again came the
horn's voice; for belike they had no mind to come their ways covertly
because of their pride.
"Soon therewithal comes Fox creeping back to us, and I saw him whisper
into the ear of the War-duke, but heard not the word he said. I saw that
he had hanging to him two Roman saxes, so I deemed he had slain those
two, and so escaped the Romans. Maidens, it were well that ye gave me to
drink again, for I am weary and my journey is done."
So again they brought him the horn, and made much of him; and he drank,
and then spake on.
"Now heard we the horn's voice again quite close, and it was sharp and
shrill, and nothing like to the roar of our battle-horns: still was the
wood and no wind abroad, not even down the oak-lawn; and we heard now the
tramp of many men as they thrashed through the small wood and bracken of
the thicket-way; and those eight men and their leader came forward,
moving like one, close up to the thicket where I lay, just where the path
passed into the thicket beset by the Sons of the Goths: so near they were
that I could see the dints upon their armour, and the strands of the wire
on their sax-handles. Down then bowed the tall bracken on the further
side of the wood-lawn, the thicket crashed before the march of men, and
on they strode into the lawn, a goodly band, wary, alert, and silent of
cries.
"But when they came into the lawn they spread out somewhat to their left
hands, that is to say on the west side, for that way was the clear glade;
but on the east the thicket came close up to them and edged them away.
Therein lay the Goths.
"There they stayed awhile, and spread out but a little, as men marching,
not as men fighting. A while we let them be; and we saw their captain,
no big man, but dight with very fair armour and weapons; and there drew
up to him certain Goths armed, the dastards of the folk, and another
unarmed, an old man bound and bleeding. With these Goths had the captain
some converse, and presently he cried out two or three words of Welsh in
a loud voice, and the nine men who were ahead shifted them somewhat away
from us to lead down the glade westward.
"The prey had come into the net, but they had turned their faces toward
the mouth of it.
"Then turned Thiodolf swiftly to the man behind him who carried the war-
horn, and every man handled his weapons: but that man understood, and set
the little end to his mouth, and loud roared the horn of the Markmen, and
neither friend nor foe misdoubted the tale thereof. Then leaped every
man to his feet, all bow-strings twanged and the cast-spears flew; no man
forebore to shout; each as he might leapt out of the thicket and fell on
with sword and axe and spear, for it was from the bowmen but one shaft
and no more.
"Then might you have seen Thiodolf as he bounded forward like the wild-
cat on the hare, how he had no eyes for any save the Roman captain.
Foemen enough he had round about him after the two first bounds from the
thicket; for the Romans were doing their best to spread, that they might
handle those heavy cast-spears, though they might scarce do it, just come
out of the thicket as they were, and thrust together by that onslaught of
the kindreds falling on from two sides and even somewhat from behind. To
right and left flashed Throng-plough, while Thiodolf himself scarce
seemed to guide it: men fell before him at once, and close at his heels
poured the Wolfing kindred into the gap, and in a minute of time was he
amidst of the throng and face to face with the gold-dight captain.
"What with the sweep of Throng-plough and the Wolfing onrush, there was
space about him for a great stroke; he gave a side-long stroke to his
right and hewed down a tall Burgundian, and then up sprang the white
blade, but ere its edge fell he turned his wrist, and drove the point
through that Captain's throat just above the ending of his hauberk, so
that he fell dead amidst of his folk.
"All the four kindreds were on them now, and amidst them, and needs must
they give way: but stoutly they fought; for surely no other warriors
might have withstood that onslaught of the Markmen for the twinkling of
an eye: but had the Romans had but the space to have spread themselves
out there, so as to handle their shot-weapons, many a woman's son of us
had fallen; for no man shielded himself in his eagerness, but let the
swiftness of the Onset of point-and-edge shield him; which, sooth to say,
is often a good shield, as here was found.
"So those that were unslain and unhurt fled west along the glade, but not
as dastards, and had not Thiodolf followed hard in the chase according to
his wont, they might even yet have made a fresh stand and spread from oak-
tree to oak-tree across the glade: but as it befel, they might not get a
fair offing so as to disentangle themselves and array themselves in good
order side by side; and whereas the Markmen were fleet of foot, and in
the woods they knew, there were a many aliens slain in the chase or taken
alive unhurt or little hurt: but the rest fled this way and that way into
the thicket, with whom were some of the Burgundians; so there they abide
now as outcasts and men unholy, to be slain as wild-beasts one by one as
we meet them.
"Such then was the battle in Mirkwood. Give me the mead-horn that I may
drink to the living and the dead, and the memory of the dead, and the
deeds of the living that are to be."
So they brought him the horn, and he waved it over his head and drank
again and spake:
"Sixty and three dead men of the Romans we counted there up and down that
oak-glade; and we cast earth over them; and three dead dastards of the
Goths, and we left them for the wolves to deal with. And twenty-five men
of the Romans we took alive to be for hostages if need should be, and
these did we Shielding men, who are not very many, bring aback to the
wain-burg; and the Daylings, who are a great company, were appointed to
enter the wood and be with Thiodolf; and me did Otter bid to bear the
tidings, even as I have told you. And I have not loitered by the way."
Great then was the joy in the Hall; and they took Gisli, and made much of
him, and led him to the bath, and clad him in fine raiment taken from the
coffer which was but seldom opened, because the cloths it held were
precious; and they set a garland of green wheat-ears on his head. Then
they fell to and spread the feast in the hall; and they ate and drank and
were merry.
But as for speeding the tidings, the Hall-Sun sent two women and two
lads, all a-horseback, to bear the words: the women to remember the words
which she taught them carefully, the lads to be handy with the horses, or
in the ford, or the swimming of the deeps, or in the thicket. So they
went their ways, down the water: one pair went on the western side, and
the other crossed Mirkwood-water at the shallows (for being Midsummer the
water was but small), and went along the east side, so that all the
kindred might know of the tidings and rejoice.
Great was the glee in the Hall, though the warriors of the House were
away, and many a song and lay they sang: but amidst the first of the
singing they bethought them of the old woman, and would have bidden her
tell them some tale of times past, since she was so wise in the ancient
lore. But when they sought for her on all sides she was not to be found,
nor could anyone remember seeing her depart from the Hall. But this had
they no call to heed, and the feast ended, as it began, in great glee.
Albeit the Hall-Sun was troubled about the carline, both that she had
come, and that she had gone: and she determined that the next time she
met her she would strive to have of her a true tale of what she was, and
of all that was toward.
CHAPTER XIII--THE HALL-SUN SAITH ANOTHER WORD
It was no later than the next night, and a many of what thralls were not
with the host were about in the feast-hall with the elders and lads and
weaklings of the House; for last night's tidings had drawn them thither.
Gisli had gone back to his kindred and the wain-burg in the Upper-mark,
and the women were sitting, most of them, in the Women's-Chamber, some of
them doing what little summer work needed doing about the looms, but more
resting from their work in field and acre.
Then came the Hall-Sun forth from her room clad in glittering raiment,
and summoned no one, but went straight to her place on the dais under her
namesake the Lamp, and stood there a little without speaking. Her face
was pale now, her lips a little open, her eyes set and staring as if they
saw nothing of all that was round about her.
Now went the word through the Hall and the Women's-Chamber that the Hall-
Sun would speak again, and that great tidings were toward; so all folk
came flock-meal to the dais, both thralls and free; and scarce were all
gathered there, ere the Hall-Sun began speaking, and said:
"The days of the world thrust onward, and men are born therein
A many and a many, and divers deeds they win
In the fashioning of stories for the kindreds of the earth,
A garland interwoven of sorrow and of mirth.
To the world a warrior cometh; from the world he passeth away,
And no man then may sunder his good from his evil day.
By the Gods hath he been tormented, and been smitten by the foe:
He hath seen his maiden perish, he hath seen his speech-friend go:
His heart hath conceived a joyance and hath brought it unto birth:
But he hath not carried with him his sorrow or his mirth.
He hath lived, and his life hath fashioned the outcome of the deed,
For the blossom of the people, and the coming kindreds' seed.
"Thus-wise the world is fashioned, and the new sun of the morn
Where earth last night was desert beholds a kindred born,
That to-morrow and to-morrow blossoms all gloriously
With many a man and maiden for the kindreds yet to be,
And fair the Goth-folk groweth. And yet the story saith
That the deeds that make the summer make too the winter's death,
That summer-tides unceasing from out the grave may grow
And the spring rise up unblemished from the bosom of the snow.
"Thus as to every kindred the day comes once for all
When yesterday it was not, and to-day it builds the hall,
So every kindred bideth the night-tide of the day,
Whereof it knoweth nothing, e'en when noon is past away.
E'en thus the House of the Wolfings 'twixt dusk and dark doth stand,
And narrow is the pathway with the deep on either hand.
On the left are the days forgotten, on the right the days to come,
And another folk and their story in the stead of the Wolfing home.
Do the shadows darken about it, is the even here at last?
Or is this but a storm of the noon-tide that the wind is driving past?
"Unscathed as yet it standeth; it bears the stormy drift,
Nor bows to the lightening flashing adown from the cloudy lift.
I see the hail of battle and the onslaught of the strong,
And they go adown to the folk-mote that shall bide there over long.
I see the slain-heaps rising and the alien folk prevail,
And the Goths give back before them on the ridge o'er the treeless
vale.
I see the ancient fallen, and the young man smitten dead,
And yet I see the War-duke shake Throng-plough o'er his head,
And stand unhelmed, unbyrnied before the alien host,
And the hurt men rise around him to win back battle lost;
And the wood yield up her warriors, and the whole host rushing on,
And the swaying lines of battle until the lost is won.
Then forth goes the cry of triumph, as they ring the captives round
And cheat the crow of her portion and heap the warriors' mound.
There are faces gone from our feast-hall not the least beloved nor
worst,
But the wane of the House of the Wolfings not yet the world hath
cursed.
The sun shall rise to-morrow on our cold and dewy roof,
For they that longed for slaughter were slaughtered far aloof."
She ceased for a little, but her countenance, which had not changed
during her song, changed not at all now: so they all kept silence
although they were rejoicing in this new tale of victory; for they deemed
that she was not yet at the end of her speaking. And in good sooth she
spake again presently, and said:
"I wot not what hath befallen nor where my soul may be,
For confusion is within me and but dimly do I see,
As if the thing that I look on had happed a while ago.
They stand by the tofts of a war-garth, a captain of the foe,
And a man that is of the Goth-folk, and as friend and friend they
speak,
But I hear no word they are saying, though for every word I seek.
And now the mist flows round me and blind I come aback
To the House-roof of the Wolfings and the hearth that hath no lack."
Her voice grew weaker as she spake the last words, and she sank backward
on to her chair: her clenched hands opened, the lids fell down over her
bright eyes, her breast heaved no more as it had done, and presently she
fell asleep.
The folk were doubtful and somewhat heavy-hearted because of those last
words of hers; but they would not ask her more, or rouse her from her
sleep, lest they should grieve her; so they departed to their beds and
slept for what was yet left of the night.
CHAPTER XIV--THE HALL-SUN IS CAREFUL CONCERNING THE PASSES OF THE WOOD
In the morning early folk arose; and the lads and women who were not of
the night-shift got them ready to go to the mead and the acres; for the
sunshine had been plenty these last days and the wheat was done
blossoming, and all must be got ready for harvest. So they broke their
fast, and got their tools into their hands: but they were somewhat heavy-
hearted because of those last words of the Hall-Sun, and the doubt of
last night still hung about them, and they were scarcely as merry as men
are wont to be in the morning.
As for the Hall-Sun, she was afoot with the earliest, and was no less,
but mayhap more merry than her wont was, and was blithe with all, both
old and young.
But as they were at the point of going she called to them, and said:
"Tarry a little, come ye all to the dais and hearken to me."
So they all gathered thereto, and she stood in her place and spake.
"Women and elders of the Wolfings, is it so that I spake somewhat of
tidings last night?"
"Yea," said they all.
She said, "And was it a word of victory?"
They answered "yea" again.
"Good is that," she said; "doubt ye not! there is nought to unsay. But
hearken! I am nothing wise in war like Thiodolf or Otter of the Laxings,
or as Heriulf the Ancient was, though he was nought so wise as they be.
Nevertheless ye shall do well to take me for your captain, while this
House is bare of warriors."
"Yea, yea," they said, "so will we."
And an old warrior, hight Sorli, who sat in his chair, no longer quite
way-worthy, said:
"Hall-Sun, this we looked for of thee; since thy wisdom is not wholly the
wisdom of a spae-wife, but rather is of the children of warriors: and we
know thine heart to be high and proud, and that thy death seemeth to thee
a small matter beside the life of the Wolfing House."
Then she smiled and said, "Will ye all do my bidding?"
And they all cried out heartily, "Yea, Hall-Sun, that will we."
She said: "Hearken then; ye all know that east of Mirkwood-water, when ye
come to the tofts of the Bearings, and their Great Roof, the thicket
behind them is close, but that there is a wide way cut through it; and
often have I gone there: if ye go by that way, in a while ye come to the
thicket's end and to bare places where the rocks crop up through the
gravel and the woodland loam. There breed the coneys without number; and
wild-cats haunt the place for that sake, and foxes; and the wood-wolf
walketh there in summer-tide, and hard by the she-wolf hath her litter of
whelps, and all these have enough; and the bald-head erne hangeth over it
and the kite, and also the kestril, for shrews and mice abound there. Of
these things there is none that feareth me, and none that maketh me
afraid. Beyond this place for a long way the wood is nowise thick, for
first grow ash-trees about the clefts of the rock and also quicken-trees,
but not many of either; and here and there a hazel brake easy to thrust
through; then comes a space of oak-trees scattered about the lovely wood-
lawn, and then at last the beech-wood close above but clear beneath. This
I know well, because I myself have gone so far and further; and by this
easy way have I gone so far to the south, that I have come out into the
fell country, and seen afar off the snowy mountains beyond the Great
Water.
"Now fear ye not, but pluck up a heart! For either I have seen it or
dreamed it, or thought it, that by this road easy to wend the Romans
should come into the Mark. For shall not those dastards and traitors
that wear the raiment and bodies of the Goths over the hearts and the
lives of foemen, tell them hereof? And will they not have heard of our
Thiodolf, and this my holy namesake?
"Will they not therefore be saying to themselves, 'Go to now, why should
we wrench the hinges off the door with plenteous labour, when another
door to the same chamber standeth open before us? This House of the
Wolfings is the door to the treasure chamber of the Markmen; let us fall
on that at once rather than have many battles for other lesser matters,
and then at last have to fight for this also: for having this we have
all, and they shall be our thralls, and we may slaughter what we will,
and torment what we will and deflower what we will, and make our souls
glad with their grief and anguish, and take aback with us to the cities
what we will of the thralls, that their anguish and our joy may endure
the longer.' Thus will they say: therefore is it my rede that the
strongest and hardiest of you women take horse, a ten of you and one to
lead besides, and ride the shallows to the Bearing House, and tell them
of our rede; which is to watch diligently the ways of the wood; the
outgate to the Mark, and the places where the wood is thin and easy to
travel on: and ye shall bid them give you of their folk as many as they
deem fittest thereto to join your company, so that ye may have a chain of
watchers stretching far into the wilds; but two shall lie without the
wood, their horses ready for them to leap on and ride on the spur to the
wain-burg in the Upper-mark if any tidings befal.
"Now of these eleven I ordain Hrosshild to be the leader and captain, and
to choose for her fellows the stoutest-limbed and heaviest-handed of all
the maidens here: art thou content Hrosshild?"
Then stood Hrosshild forth and said nought, but nodded yea; and soon was
her choice made amid jests and laughter, for this seemed no hard matter
to them.
So the ten got together, and the others fell off from them, and there
stood the ten maidens with Hrosshild, well nigh as strong as men, clean-
limbed and tall, tanned with sun and wind; for all these were unwearied
afield, and oft would lie out a-nights, since they loved the lark's song
better than the mouse's squeak; but as their kirtles shifted at neck and
wrist, you might see their skins as white as privet-flower where they
were wont to be covered.
Then said the Hall-Sun: "Ye have heard the word, see ye to it, Hrosshild,
and take this other word also: Bid the Bearing stay-at-homes bide not the
sword and the torch at home if the Romans come, but hie them over hither,
to hold the Hall or live in the wild-wood with us, as need may be; for
might bides with many.
"But ye maidens, take this counsel for yourselves; do ye each bear with
you a little keen knife, and if ye be taken, and it seem to you that ye
may not bear the smart of the Roman torments (for they be wise in
tormenting), but will speak and bewray us under them, then thrust this
little edge tool into the place of your bodies where the life lieth
closest, and so go to the Gods with a good tale in your mouths: so may
the Almighty God of Earth speed you, and the fathers of the kindred!"
So she spoke; and they made no delay but each one took what axe or spear
or sword she liked best, and two had their bows and quivers of arrows;
and so all folk went forth from the Hall.
Soon were the horses saddled and bridled, and the maidens bestrode them
joyously and set forth on their way, going down the lanes of the wheat,
and rode down speedily toward the shallows of the water, and all cried
good speed after them. But the others would turn to their day's work,
and would go about their divers errands. But even as they were at point
to sunder, they saw a swift runner passing by those maidens just where
the acres joined the meadow, and he waved his hand aloft and shouted to
them, but stayed not his running for them, but came up the lanes of the
wheat at his swiftest: so they knew at once that this was again a
messenger from the host, and they stood together and awaited his coming;
and as he drew near they knew him for Egil, the swiftest-footed of the
Wolfings; and he gave a great shout as he came among them; and he was
dusty and way-worn, but eager; and they received him with all love, and
would have brought him to the Hall to wash him and give him meat and
drink, and cherish him in all ways.
But he cried out, "To the Speech-Hill first, to the Speech-Hill first!
But even before that, one word to thee, Hall-Sun! Saith Thiodolf, Send
ye watchers to look to the entrance into Mid-mark, which is by the
Bearing dwelling; and if aught untoward befalleth let one ride on the
spur with the tidings to the Wain-burg. For by that way also may peril
come."
Then smiled some of the bystanders, and the Hall-Sun said: "Good is it
when the thought of a friend stirreth betimes in one's own breast. The
thing is done, Egil; or sawest thou not those ten women, and Hrosshild
the eleventh, as thou camest up into the acres?"
Said Egil; "Fair fall thine hand, Hall-Sun! thou art the Wolfings'
Ransom. Wend we now to the Speech-Hill."
So did they, and every thrall that was about the dwellings, man, woman,
and child fared with them, and stood about the Speech-Hill: and the dogs
went round about the edge of that assembly, wandering in and out, and
sometimes looking hard on some one whom they knew best, if he cried out
aloud.
But the men-folk gave all their ears to hearkening, and stood as close as
they might.
Then Egil clomb the Speech-Hill, and said.
CHAPTER XV--THEY HEAR TELL OF THE BATTLE ON THE RIDGE
"Ye have heard how the Daylings were appointed to go to help Thiodolf in
driving the folk-spear home to the heart of the Roman host. So they
went; but six hours thereafter comes one to Otter bidding him send a
great part of the kindreds to him; for that he had had tidings that a
great host of Romans were drawing near the wood-edge, but were not
entered therein, and that fain would he meet them in the open field.
"So the kindreds drew lots, and the lot fell first to the Elkings, who
are a great company, as ye know; and then to the Hartings, the Beamings,
the Alftings, the Vallings (also a great company), the Ga
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